


The Empty Chair

by Into_the_Ether



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: About damn time too, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Drunk John, Angry John, Angst and Humor, BAMF John, Confrontations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Get your angstmallows ready, Greg Lestrade is a saint, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mentions of drug use and overdosing, Missions in Europe, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mysterious phone calls, Pining Sherlock, S3, Sad John, Sherlock's time away, Slow Burn, Strained Friendships, What-If, gratuitous beer drinking, more tags as we go onward, much needed communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Into_the_Ether/pseuds/Into_the_Ether
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the sudden death of his best friend and flatmate, John is barely scraping by. Despite his attempts to stay afloat with work to the point of exhaustion, John finds he’s slowly and willingly sinking under the weight of his anger and guilt over Sherlock’s suicide. </p><p>That is, until he gets a phone call. Until the bleak reality John has come to know proves to be fabricated.</p><p>Can the trust lost for a certain not-so-dead detective be rebuilt while John maintains appearances? Can a series of secret conversations mend a tattered friendship?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap I'm taking on a reunion fic. I had this wild what-if in my head for the last few months and decided to run with it. This will be multi-chaptered, not sure how many though at this point because it's a WIP. I know some folks aren't too keen on investing in those, so I wanted to give you a heads up on that.
> 
> Also this story ain't betaed nor brit-picked, but hopefully reads like it's both. If there's a glaring issue, just let me know. 
> 
> With that said, buckle in, let's see what this baby can do.

It started with a phone call.

Well…

…to be technical, it started with a _different_ phone call.

One from the mobile phone of the world’s only Consulting Detective before he plummeted into oblivion.

Before John’s world came crashing down with him.

His therapist Ella informed him that not everyone experiences the stages of grief in the same way, but he’d go through them in time. That it was good to go through them. That he _should_ go through them.

And John did, more or less.

After the disbelief faded, after reality finally sunk in that Sherlock was really gone, the anger came. It dug its teeth and claws into John and wouldn’t let go. Though, if he were to be honest with himself—really honest—he hadn’t put up much of a fight to begin with.

He _wanted_ to be angry at everyone. Ella, most of Met, the bloody British Government, the brutal media. Anyone really except for Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They were grieving too after all. So John kept his distance as much as he could. The less exposure they had to his nearly non-existent fuse the better. For them he simply playacted. ‘Getting by’ became his persona:

“ _John? He’s doing alright I think, you know, getting by_.”

Or

“ _Oh! The poor thing; well you know how close they were. Such a tragedy but, John’s getting by_.”

And he was, more or less. Mostly less.

Work, home, eat, sleep, rinse and repeat. It was structured, a sort of regimental existence he found familiar, soothing. It allotted John just enough control to tamp down the buzzing beneath his skin. Like bees making honey combs from his muscles.

Ella called it “ _emotional energy_ ”. She’d suggested he take up something to work it out. Boxing, running, something physical.

“ _Mmmm did that. It was called enlisting.”_

_“But you were a doctor.”_

_“Some days, yeah.”_

What Dr. Thompson didn’t realize though, was that while beating the innards out of a sack of sand might help him blow off some pent up uneasiness, it would do nothing to alleviate the shear fury John held for himself.

For being so _oblivious_ —big surprise there. Of course _he_ would miss something so crucial. Not seeing what was apparently happening right in front of him. What Sherlock was planning… _had_ planned.

They were friends weren’t they? Wasn’t that John’s campaign this entire time? That friends looked out for one another. Protected each other. And what had he done?

He _left_.

He fell for Sherlock’s primary tactic—apathy, and John had abandoned him.

Sure the doctor eventually saw it for the diversion it was, but the fact remained he never should have left Sherlock alone in the first place. Not after everything that was going on.

Sherlock might have prided himself on acting like a sociopath. On using it as a shield, or as an excuse to cut corners or because that’s what people expected of him, or any combination of reasons John had theorized over the course of their relationship. But Sherlock was still a human being. Still _felt_ things. Perhaps more so than most people did.

And sure the man was reckless. Infuriatingly so. The many patch up sessions in their bathroom, sometimes their sitting room if he couldn’t get Sherlock to move any further into the flat. Even in his day to day living habits, Sherlock regularly pushed the limits the human body could take.

Reckless yes, but suicidal? No. Sherlock might have repeatedly flung himself into harm's way but there was never a question of whether his aim was to survive or not.

So when the entire universe seemed to be turning against the detective, his credibility in ruins, possibly facing criminal charges, the life as Sherlock knew it irrefutably changed—

How hadn't John seen that coming?

That wasn’t the sort of guilt one could just slog off. Sorry Ella.

It was probably just a ploy to get him in for more sessions. Which was ironic because that was the last one John went to.

Bargaining endeavored to make an appearance, a valiant effort truly, but at that point anger left no room for it. It was all consuming and John let it gnash at him until there was nothing left but overworked sinew and raw nerves.

He _did_ give it a go at least once though, a week after the funeral, as the doctor stood before a black marble headstone, eyes tracing over the name cut into its shiny surface. Ridiculously lavish but kept restricted in its design.

Why was it easier to say these things here, _now_ , then to the man’s face?

No...not easier. Compulsive. John’s words tumbled from his mouth, with a crushing sort of need to be uttered despite how rubbish it was in retrospect. What good was it to lavish endearments on a slab of rock?

Sherlock wasn’t there. Sherlock wasn’t anywhere anymore but he certainly wasn’t _here_. Still, John doubted what he had to say would have changed anything. Sherlock was a hard man to connect to most times. But at least he would have known what John thought of him. What he meant to him.

So John said the things he should have said that day and made one final request to an impossible man.

If he could find a way to come back…if Sherlock could just stop being dead. For John.

Wouldn’t that be brilliant? Wouldn’t that be the most brilliant thing of all from a person who had the stuff practically pumping through their veins?

But the world, as it does, went on.

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and John packed up his hope as he packed up most of Sherlock’s things to put into storage. With every box he filled it sank in just a little deeper, just a little more into the void.

Good shot there bargaining. Better luck next time.

This phone call, this _other_ phone call came mid-October some four months after Sherlock’s death, while John was still good and angry. He’d been sitting at home, at Baker Street in the early evening after killing a few hours at the clinic.

Work was about the only place he could set aside himself and concentrate on something else. Where John could quiet that hankering to tear himself and anyone else apart.

While he was at it, while he was listening to symptoms and taking readings and going through the motions it felt normal. Effortless even. But by early evening, staying so neutral began to eat at his energy. Made him a bit sharper round the edges. What turned out to be John’s last appointment of the day almost ended with him snapping at his patient. _Bit not good._

Sarah cut him early and John didn’t argue. For once in months, he didn’t argue. He simply pulled on his coat and autopiloted all the way home to the point that when John was plodding up the stairs to the flat he hesitated before walking across the threshold. He couldn’t quite recall how he got here. He’d done it countless times from just being knackered but tonight, it unnerved him.

John collapsed onto the couch, shoes off and feet propped up on the coffee table, contemplating if he should start off with one finger of scotch or two.

The stillness of the flat was suffocating. _Two it is_.

It was when he took his first sip, the alcohol burning its way down towards his stomach, attempting to put the bees to sleep, that John’s mobile suddenly rang.

It shimmied itself across the surface of the coffee table displaying an unknown number. He watched it dance for a bit, debating. _Could be a patient_ he convinced himself as he had arranged that the clinic could give out his number in case of emergencies. John retrieved the phone, clearing the thickness from his throat before accepting the call.

“Hello?” Christ he sounded tired? Drained? Half here? He settled on ‘off’. John sniffed loudly, cleared his throat again and sat up a bit.

The other line was so quiet the doctor pulled the mobile away from his ear to make sure the call was still going. It was. _Ok then._

“Hello?” He tried again, frowning a little. Maybe it was a bad connection. “Is someone there?”

After waiting another handful of seconds John ended the call. Shrugged it off and went back to wallowing somewhere between exhaustion and wanting to crawl out of his skin. He ended up going to bed early that night after picking at some leftovers he had in the fridge. The thing he tried to call sleep was fitful, more taxing then restful.

The second _other_ phone call came three weeks later, nearly round the same time in the evening while John was still dissecting his cooling chicken lo mien and watching the colors and images flicker on the telly without really taking them in. He seemed to have two modes these days, live wire and completely shut down. Right now he was off, which out of the two, was considerably better.

Driving his chopsticks into his dinner, John muted the television and picked up his mobile, glancing at the screen. Not only was it an unknown number but a long string of digits he didn’t recognize the configuration of. With furrowed brow he accepted the call.

“Hello?”

Silence greeted him back.

Sighing, John checked to see if he was still connected, he was. “ _Hello_?” He drew out, waiting.

“I think you might have the wrong number yeah?” He reasoned curtly with seemingly no one. “Can you hear me?”

This time the other end disconnected first.

John pulled the mobile away, looking almost insulted. Which was absurd, who got upset by a wrong number? Without considering how puerile it was, he brought up his call log and hit the last incoming number with his thumb, redialing it. The line rang once then:

“Sorry. The number you have reached is not in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

 _The hell?_ John put his phone down, something heavy settled in his stomach and he didn’t feel like eating anymore. Not that he was ravenous to begin with. Takeout went into the fridge and John headed up to his room, deciding to try and get some rest. Maybe read for a little while before his body finally caved to fatigue.

After an hour of reading the same paragraphs he gave up and lay awake in darkness instead.

By morning he forgot about the call. Sarah texted, asking him to come in earlier than he was scheduled for. One of the local primaries had an outbreak of influenza and parents were flooding the clinic to get their kids and themselves inoculated at the last minute.

_Flu season…_

John glanced at the calendar stuck to the fridge with bleary morning eyes, waiting for the kettle to boil and seeing that it was nearly the holidays…

 

.-- .... -.-- / -.. .. -.. -. .----. - / ..

 

There was a phenomenon John found himself undergoing again.

Monday suddenly became Thursday which became Sunday.

Or the opposite, where a day would never end. _Those_ John usually felt late at night when he was trying to go to sleep.

The last time he experienced this odd flux was when he’d just come back from being discharged. The first two weeks blended together as he got his affairs in order—met with military personnel in London in regards to his pension, contacted his folks, managed to meet up with his sister, put a deposit down on that coffin of a bedsit.

It was only when everything was squared away that John’s days began to stagnate. Like his time was moving slower than everyone else’s now that he was deemed useless.

Funny thing that. He used to love downtime during his tours. The quiet moments sometimes in the mornings, sometimes the evenings before they would get word of an incident somewhere—soldiers being flown in or him being flown out. It was an ebb and flow that John enjoyed. Thrived in.

He found the same tidal effect to his life when he moved into 221B, affected by the orbit of Sherlock Holmes.

And without it, some days felt dried up, like the water permanently receded. While others felt like drowning.

Christmas crawled in on its belly and John tried to pay it no mind. He just wasn’t in the mood to feel festive. Frankly he just wasn’t in the mood to feel. But the atmosphere around the doctor brightened anyway, people were as expected cheery as the weather grew as expected bitter. Mrs. Hudson bubbled and John accepted her fussing with great restraint.

He did get some delicious shortbread cookies out of it and a very nice hand-knitted jumper. So there’s that.

Before he knew it however, a new year was being ushered in all over the globe and John wasn’t quite ready to let the old one go _just_ yet.

Sitting by the fire in his chair, John stared at the foggy windows of the sitting room, forbidding himself to look down at the chair across from him. He felt that if he looked down, the old year would dissolve away and right now he could make believe—just a bit longer—that circumstances were different.

It’s a silly thing really, not exactly healthy. It was Stage 1 coating over the still rampant inferno that is Stage 2.

The phone in his trouser pocket buzzed once. A text. John blinked and fished it out. Greg had wished him a happy New Year, wanted to get together for a drink sometime. _I’m drinking right now…what a coincidence_. Deciding to reply to it later, maybe tomorrow, the doctor glanced up and his eyes fell onto the empty chair.

An inhale wavered through his nose and John looked away hastily, lifting his glass to his lips with tense fingers, his exhale amplified in the tumbler.

Left on the armrest of his seat, his phone—set on silent, began to buzz rhythmically.

This was the fourth unknown call he’d received, the third was about two weeks before Christmas while he was traveling home from work and John had answered it without even looking at the screen. For some reason the quiet on the other end, every so often popping with static, made him suddenly see red.

John had come to a dead halt on the pavement, people pushing past him with annoyed glares but he no longer registered them and instead snarled into his phone.

“Listen. I don’t know who the hell you are but if this is someone from the papers I’ve got a statement for you…fuck off!” He’d ended the call and found he was practically panting, face flushed far more than from just the chill in the air. John managed to pull himself together and continue on home, shutting his mobile off for the day.

Now he watched as it cycled through the ringer and he _almost_ let it go to voicemail. He never tried that before. It was another number John had never seen before; but he knew what was waiting on the other end nonetheless. Biting into his bottom lip, he answered the call as it neared the last ring.

“So I guess this is a thing now yeah?” John offered in way of a greeting, killing his drink in one go. “You call—I answer, and you don’t say anything?” He swallowed thickly.

As predicted, there was no response.

It was crazy. It really was. Any sensible person would hang up; they might even report the activity to the police. _Four_ anonymous phone calls? Rather suspicious activity.

Then again any sensible person wouldn’t follow a whirlwind of a man who kept human parts in his fridge and solved crimes. Sometimes those two things actually pertained to one another.

It could have easily been contributed to the steady rise of his blood alcohol level, but at that very second John Watson wanted to talk.

So he did.

“Right.” He nodded to himself, settling in. “Fine. That’s good. I’ll just talk to you then.”

He waited a moment, expecting the other line to hang up, to hear the _boop_ of the call ending. It didn’t. But it was so damn quiet over there John found himself checking the screen anyway.

The seconds were still ticking away.

Sighing into the phone, John tried to formulate what exactly to talk about, now that he apparently had a captive audience. _Yep. Completely crazy._ Words came to him slowly and he purged them out as they hit the back of his teeth.

“I don’t know about your year…but mine was pretty rubbish. Well…” He caught himself, smiled jadedly. “…the middle and end of it was.”

“The beginning though…” John’s eyes flicked up to the vacant leather chair, the rest of his sentence jamming in his throat. “…the beginning was brilliant.” He breathed then laughed softly, tracing his finger around the rim of the empty glass resting on his thigh.

John then proceeded to wax on about his day from the moment he dragged himself out of bed to up until this evening. Because, why not? At the moment he couldn’t give two shits how inane this one-sided conversation was. And whatever lay on the other end certainly wasn’t complaining.

He checked every so often through his synopsis to see if his mystery caller was still there. They were. He then stalled out sometime after recounting how he nearly ruined his dinner reheating it in the microwave, meant to set it on 3 minutes but hit an extra zero and went to change his clothes. By the time John came back the plate of leftover manicotti was a splattered solidified mess.

“I nearly binned the microwave with it.” He chuckled, bracing the mobile between his cheek and his shoulder as he got up and poured another shot of scotch. “Had a bit more in the fridge, so wasn’t a total loss.” John added, setting the bottle down and looking the phone’s screen—Christ he’d been chatting to nothing for a little over an hour and a half now.

“What time s’it by you?” He asked with a grunt, plopping down in his chair while managing to stabilize his drink even in his _very_ inebriated state. He knew fully well he’d never get an answer as the question passed his lips. “It’s 1 something in the morning here. Maybe we should call it a night—er— _day_.” He corrected with a sleepy laugh, somewhere in his hazing brain he thought about his wireless bill. _Oh god…_

John placed his drink aside and rubbed his hand along his leg. “Yeah. Right well…”

“Ta for listening, I guess.”

“I s’pose I should wish you a happy New Year.” He huffed another laugh, but there was little humor to it. “Not too sure—mmm—how happy s’going to be.”

“So. I’ll just say…g’night.”

He waited. He didn’t really know what he was waiting for but John did it anyway, just a few seconds more before pulling the mobile from where it’s been plastered hot and tacky to his face and tapped the red phone icon. He let it slide from his fingers and fall onto his stomach.

John suddenly felt like he’d cut himself off from the world. Like outside stood some barren wasteland and this had been his only human contact in ages. Shaking off the sentiment he picked up his drink, staring at the empty chair.

“Happy New Year Sherlock.” He whispered against the rim of his glass.

The old year evaporated before his eyes.

 

.--- ..- ... - / - . .-.. .-.. / -.-- --- ..- ..--..

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say real quick thank you sooooooo much for the kudos and comments, makes my day!
> 
> Also, just for clarification:
> 
> " _This is a recollection of something actually said in the past._ "

 

The voicemail theory was tested on the fifth call. Not that John had planned to test it, but:

  1. It had been nearly two months since his drunken dialog on New Year’s Day.
  2. One tended to observe not much else when dodging a fist to the face.  
  
Oh and,
  3. It’s a general rule that all personal items—including phones are confiscated at the time of incarceration.



In hindsight it was pretty serendipitous. If one believed in that kind of thing. Right night, right pub, right amount of lager in his gut, the right seat next to the right loudmouth arse, and just the right comment.

To John’s merit he tried to be controlled. Tried to not let Stage 2 get the better of him. But _trying_ and _doing_ were very different things when it came to assault.

To begin with the pub three blocks from Baker Street was a bit of a dive.

Okay it was a spectacular dump.

There were probably a dozen health code violations in any given centimeter. It was stuffy and dark and reeked of old beer. Though smoking had been banned long ago, one could still smell the scent of deeply infused cigarette smoke in the furnishings. The vinyl upholstery of John’s barstool stuck to the back of his trousers, a rather sharp crack in it poking him in the cheek whenever he moved.

To actively _choose_ to come here must have appeared completely daft. There were far superior pubs only a few blocks farther away. However the bartender knew him by name, the beers on tap were satisfactory and they tended to keep the volume on the telly just a hair above the din. Which suited John just fine.

Because he wasn’t there to socialize. This was not one of his places to seek company. No, John came to this pit for three things and three things only: drink beer, eat pistachios, and watch a match. Full stop.

It was mindless. Sherlock would have hated it.

John smiled faintly around the rim of his pint glass, taking a sip and licking the foam from his upper lip.

He could practically hear Sherlock saying something to the effect of: _You could do all those tedious things at home John. I don’t see the point_.

And while that was theoretically true, John had an inkling the detective would have known the _point_ perfectly well. Sherlock could whip up a psychological profile as easy as penning a grocery list, but it didn’t take a genius to see this was the most anti-Holmes place one could go.

That when John grunted he was going “ _Out_ ” after they had yet another spectacular row it usually meant he was coming here.

Surprisingly, Sherlock never questioned him over it though. Which was baffling in and of itself.

Although Sherlock had particularly excelled at avoiding social norms, and personal space, oh and let’s not forget privacy or what was exactly appropriate to say to someone in a given situation. Perhaps he did respect John’s need sometimes to get away from him.

Just for a little while to decompress. He’d always come back after all—a little swagger to his gate, with hoppy breath and salty lips.

Interestingly, as of late when John returned home from his _more than a walk,_ that instead of outright ignoring him as usual; Sherlock would greet him with a nod or launch into something that was on the detective’s mind. Acting as if John hadn’t just stalked off angrily an hour or so beforehand.

There had even been an increase—if the context of John’s leaving called for it—of apologies.

Well, something resembling an apology.

“ _In retrospect...perhaps it was a bit wrong of me to use your date jeans to test caustic chemicals.”_

John smiled to himself again, feeling an amusing nostalgia as he dropped another nutshell on the stack he was building besides his glass. Seven so far without tipping. His current record was eleven.

Yeah Sherlock’s skills at damage control were pretty lousy. Downright nonexistent at times. But he’d been getting better at it in his own way. John was sure of that.

It wasn’t shocking however that people—even close colleagues for that matter—couldn’t fathom how the doctor put up with living with him. Admittedly there were some occasions that John himself wondered if he wasn't right in the head to keep coming back as he did.

What those people didn’t understand however was that Sherlock wasn’t the constant whirling dervish of chaos he made himself out to be.

Sure he could be a right pain in the arse at times, especially when he got into one of his black moods. Nevertheless there were plenty of moments when the man was simply at ease. Peaceful.

Believe it or not, Sherlock Holmes was even be a little boring on occasions…though John would ever outwardly admit to that.

Because he _liked_ it. He’d liked the quiet part of Sherlock who puttered for hours in the kitchen running experiments on things—though maybe not John’s things. And maybe not the experiments that resulted in them having to evacuate the flat and call the fire department _again_.

He’d liked Sherlock curled up in his lumpy leather chair and engrossed in a book on soil properties or deadly foreign bacteria or Greek architecture. Or him shouting insults at the telly but still sticking around till the end of a program. Or when Sherlock would save those weird baby corn things from his Chinese food because John enjoyed them so much.

John often wondered if putting those things into his blog—the one that was already deemed “ _romanticized drivel_ ”—would have made a difference. Possibly. He’d always sought to paint the detective in a more humanistic light.

But a selfish part of him didn’t want to share those moments with anyone else either. They were private. _His_. Some of them only happened when he and Sherlock were alone together—

John swallowed down the lump forming in his throat with the last gulp of his now warm lager.

_Right. No more of that._

He motioned to the bartender that he wanted another drink then turned his eyes to the old boxy standard definition television bolted to the wall. Tried to focus on it and nothing else. The goal tonight was to wind down not up.

Truth be told he was here tonight after getting into an argument. This time with Sarah over his hours.

John had been making it a point to max out his time at the clinic. If someone was on leave, out sick, he’d offer to take their shifts too. It kept him occupied, kept him out of the flat and doing _something_.

It also had the added benefit of making him exhausted come evening.

Though admittedly stubborn, John wasn’t ignorant. He recognized the signs of insomnia he’d been developing over these past few months. Or rather, it wasn’t exactly a development as it was a _re_ development. Nice little parting gift from the war. Though this time instead of nightmares keeping him awake it was a fluctuating feeling between restlessness and nothingness.

He’d tried various things, any recommendation he would make to a patient: cut back on the caffeine, relaxing music at a low volume, white noise, hot shower before bed, reading. The only thing he hadn’t attempted again was to go back on medication—bad experiences. So, instead John worked until he was dead on his feet.

It was that or drinking. Though that sort of drinking usually involved stronger spirits. What he was doing currently was merely a plaster in comparison.

John took a swig from the fresh glass placed in front of him, gasping as the chilled liquid ached its way down into his stomach.

Sarah had caught wise to his dramatically increased work ethic however. Which subsequently lead to her cutting his hours, which subsequently caused them to fight behind the closed door of her office at the end of his shift.

She’d explained to John that while she appreciated having him around more, she was worried he was going to burn himself out if he went on like this.

John wasn’t sure what bothered him more in that moment, Sarah’s pity or the fact she was right.

Maybe he wanted to burn out.

The tense exchange had ended with the doctor being put on leave for the next three days after his shift tomorrow, Sarah stating quite _firmly_ that it could easily be extended. John had no choice but to cap his steaming temper and leave, not wanting to get himself essentially sacked. And wouldn’t that be something? Fired for working too much.

So here he was. Watching telly, eating nuts, and working on his third pilsner—half pint this round. The perfect trifecta to lose yourself in.

Digging for another pistachio from the mixed bowl, John cracked the shell to free the little salty green gem inside. He’d just popped it into his mouth and turned his eyes back to the television when a voice to his left sliced through the ongoing murmur around him like an arrow.

“Fuck. You sound like that ponce who offed himself.”         

Something shrill thrummed along John’s insides, like a cord running vertically from his guts to his chest was plucked. It was an abrupt feeling, one that usually kicked off a fight or flight response. He’d become quite acquainted to it on a number of occasions for a number of reasons. Whether it was a sudden rifle fire outside of camp or Sherlock blowing something up in the kitchen.

John licked his lips and kept his focus on the set. Coincidence. Just a coincidence. He hadn’t even heard the comment before it to spark the statement. It could have been anything about anyone. There was no need for alarm.

But damn if his hearing didn’t wander.

“Who?” Came another voice from the first. Both male, young, a few shots in and already slumping far out of the personal space of their barstools.

The first man, loud and boisterous, tisked exasperatedly at his friend. “You know, that detective. That bloke. The fuck was his name…wait a tic I’ll find it.” He leaned back, bumping into John’s shoulder without so much as an apology as he rooted out his phone.

 _Nevermind_. John dipped his head and closed his eyes. Sensibly, he should just get up. _Pay your tab and leave_ , his mind warned, some faint inner voice, some shadow. _It’s not worth it._

“ _Holmes_ , that’s it.” The man to his left exclaimed, squinting at his screen to view the tiny image before spreading it bigger. “I forgot how dodgy he looked, look at this prat.”

 _Not worth it. Don’t do it John. Don’t._ It ran like a mantra but it had the opposite effect on him, instead of soothing, John felt his pulse thundering in his ears.

“ _Oh right._ I remember him.” Snorted the second bloke as he took a gander at the screen too.

The man with the phone scoffed, then mumbled something under his breath before knocking back a waiting shot.

But John had heard it.

Heard it like he was the only other person in the room. Cutting through like nails on a black board. Like the way your brain convulses when foil contacts metal fillings.

The switch flipped and the wires went live.

“Not as cowardly as mocking a dead man.” The words gritted through John’s teeth so calmly and low that he wasn’t sure at first if the prick even heard him. But soon brown eyes, half-lidded with drink twist round to meet his. Slow, stupid, putting the pieces together.

This must have been what regular people were like to Sherlock. Like everyone around him was drunk.

“Wha’was that?” He was _youngish_ , late twenties, worked construction by the cement splatter on his jeans and boots and the build of his upper body, the bridge of his nose between those hazy eyes was misshapen and leaning mildly to the left—liked to spout off quite a bit apparently. John was sure a certain someone could have read droves more on this model citizen, but he’d gotten enough to know this wasn’t going to be an easy match.

 _Good_.

“I’m sorry.” John cocked his head with an amusement that was nothing short of dangerous if this git had known any better. “Pretty sure I told you to be respectful.” He licked his lips. “Considering you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

As expected, the man scoffed again, jerking his head towards the door to the bar. “Sod off short stuff, mind your own business.”

“It is _my_ business you _thick shit_.” John squared himself, seeming to grow several sizes bigger out of nowhere as he got to his feet. Summoning something that made his spine feel electric, fists clenching at his sides as he tried to discharge the currents, daring the other man with his eyes to take a swing at him so John could make him eat lightning.

There was a moment of murky realization, like a fish breaching the surface of a liquor filled lake and the man smiled at John, lopsided and self-assured. He raised a blunt finger, pointed it, _waved_ it at him. “You’re him…his little side _kick_. Fuck I thought you looked familiar when I sat down.” He elbowed his buddy then nodded to himself with pride like he’d won for something beyond having eyeballs.

Sobering but no less smug, the young man leaned forward towards him, his voice lower, breath sour from booze. “Guess that gravy train derailed eh?” He proceeded to make a squashing sound with his cheek.

And then, being the good doctor he was, John helped him readjust his nose.

The wheels sort of came off from there…

John spent the rest of the night in a holding cell mulling over the evening with grim contentment, the left side of his cheekbone and jaw swollen and throbbing.

That was ultimately his fault. After Loudmouth Arse recovered and tried to take a swing at John and missed, John had given him a nice haymaker to the jaw sending him off his chair onto the floor. That’s when Buddy of Loudmouth Arse finally decided to step in like a true gent—fellow construction worker but nowhere near as built as LMA was.

John had dropped him easily with a strike in the gut and a sweep to his legs after dodging a pathetic excuse for a punch towards the doctor’s head.

Sadly it left him open as BLMA crumbled to the ground with a wheeze for LMA to regain himself, springing sloppily from the ground and bulrushing John backwards into the bar. As they both reeled from the impact, LMA used the advantage to pull back and deck him in the face twice before John could react.

There had been a headbutt following, which John was fairly proud of—though his forehead was paying for it now—before three blokes managed to wretch them apart.

The police were called; arrests were made—all three of them in fact, and for once in a great long while as John closed his eyes he slept well. He slept very well.

He woke sometime in the morning as the sun streaked through the grated bars of his cell’s only window.

As he blinked the sleep from his eyes and rolled over onto his back, John groaned at the dull ache from where he had collided with the bar—that was bruised for sure. Wincing from that made him aware of his face, which was probably seven shades of awful based on how painful emoting was alone.

Carefully he righted himself, trying to ignore the pounding inside his skull as he sat up.

It been ages since he’d slept in a hold—back in Uni if he remembered correctly. What they considered a _bed_ was more like a slab with a thin spongy mat on it. Which unless you were right pissed was not the most comfortable thing to sleep on.

He’d just started working the stiffness from his left shoulder after laying on it most of the night, when the cell door screeched opened and in stepped Lestrade, looking none too pleased.

Greg nodded towards the hall outside. “Let’s go.”

John knitted his brow, about the only thing that didn’t hurt as he stood up. “Go?” His foggy brain noting that the DI was wearing his trench coat as if he was about to leave.

“ _Yep_.”

Walking into the hall as a guard shut the door behind them, Lestrade stopped them before they continued any further. “You should of called me.” He chastised, tone barely above a growl.

John squared his jaw, immediately regretting moving it as hot pain shot through the bone. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, having a nice punch-up!” Greg hollered, his ire deflating as two officers walked passed, eying them both. The DI sighed heavily, slapping a large bag at John’s chest which the doctor instinctively clenched at.

John blinked, looking down at the clear plastic containing his coat, wallet, keys, and mobile phone. “Wait…”

“Aren’t I going to be charged or…or something?” He asked Lestrade’s receding form, quickly following him as they went right passed the processing desk and towards the main lobby doors. John hurriedly tore open the bag and wrenched out his coat, slipping it halfway on.

“Nope.” The DI shouted over his shoulder, shoving an entry door open and a cold early March chill swept in.

They went briskly down the steps and onto the pavement, Greg pausing at a street vendor and ordering two large coffees. “How’s that even possible?” John asked as he caught up, digging through the rest of the bag and pocketing his wallet and keys, tossing the plastic away in a nearby bin. He checked the battery on his phone, glancing at the notification bar.

Nearly dead and four missed calls. _Wonderful._

“Friends in high places.” Greg held out a steaming cup to the doctor.

John looked up at him in confusion before he accepted it. A hot cup of anything with caffeine sounded magical right about now. “Thanks. How… _high_ are we talking about?”

“High.” Lestrade replied, seeing there was no need to elaborate by John’s sudden frown. The DI sipped at his coffee and gasped from the heat, words wafting out in a thick cloud. “But I wouldn’t go making this a habit.” He added sternly then nodded towards their left.

They began a slow stroll down the pavement. John couldn’t fathom why in the world Mycroft Holmes would slip him a get out of jail free card. Guilt? Was it possible for that man to even feel guilty?

Things had become estranged between them—to put it mildly—since John had found out Mycroft offered his own brother on a platter to a lunatic. They’d even kept their distance from each other at Sherlock’s funeral—Mycroft had made all the arrangements to John’s knowledge and come the day of, there was a black town-car waiting for him outside Baker Street. The extent of their interaction that afternoon was a shared glance and noting more.

Well then if the British Government thought he could just swoop in and smooth things over, Mycroft had another bloody thing coming—

A random thought crossed John just then, almost causing the doctor to pause as he and Lestrade still ambled along, cheeks pinked from the chilly morning air.

Could it be Mycroft behind the random calls?

Considering his power he’d have access to numbers wouldn’t he? Could probably easily get them changed and disconnected. No…that didn’t make sense. Why call? If anything Mycroft would send a car. Or manifest suddenly like some bespoke ghost at his flat. There were far easier ways to check up on John then having some government lackey call him sporadically.

Maybe they were tapping his phone…but why—

“Have you been listening to me?” Greg stopped them some twelve meters away, staring tensely.

John glanced up from his coffee cup, his expression all the answer the DI needed.

“Christ, you’re almost as bad as him.” Lestrade’s smirk faltered and he looked away before continuing. “Listen mate, I mean it. If there’s something going on with you, talk to me. Talk to your therapist. Hell, just talk to _someone_.”

John sighed, looking down at his shoes. “I…” He didn’t want to be having this conversation to be honest. With anyone really, no offense to Greg. “I’m getting by.” The doctor met Lestrade’s gaze once more. One of Greg's brows unknitted and swept upward.

Neither of them had found that very convincing apparently.

“What are you doing later?” Lestrade asked suddenly.

John balked a little at the question. Clearing his throat, he took a sip of his coffee to buy himself a second or two to respond. It wasn’t like they’d never spent time together outside the NSY. Usually drinks at a place near the station. It was just they hadn’t done so since…it had been awhile. _Lord it had been a while…_

“Well I did have work, but seeing as I’m now…” John pushed back his sleeve, taking in the time as his eyebrows rose sharply. “ _three_ hours late. Not too sure.”

“Great. So why don’t I pop over round 7:30 after I’m off here. We’ll watch a match. Or not. We could…Net _flick_ or whatever it is.” Greg replied, grimacing at the last bit.

There was a part of John that thought they’ll do this once. Once and then Lestrade’s conscience will be cleared and they’ll never do it again. Once and he can put this whole thing behind him.

John nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah sounds good.”

He wasn’t entirely certain if he was agreeing with Greg or himself.

 

..

 

After parting ways with Lestrade, John made his way back to Baker Street in a cab, more than thankful to find Mrs. Hudson was out for the afternoon. He didn’t feel up yet to crafting an excuse as to what happened to his face. _Mugging? Disgruntled patient? Dull._

Sherlock would have seen right through any story John had tried to string together like that. He was apparently a terrible liar according to the detective. Very obvious tells.

At least he was when John was down and out lying. He had managed to slip a few fibs past the Holmesian radar a handful of times. Usually when his flatmate was focused on something else.

Not that John had made it a practice to lie to him. Really he was just trying to maintain some semblance of privacy. And living in an environment surrounded by CCTV cameras and a man who could literally smell lies sometimes made that tricky to do.

The doctor had learned however through his association with Sherlock that the best lies—besides having minimal details—always held a bit of truth in them.

It made them far easier to maintain.

Getting them into the facility at Baskerville was a prime example. In that instance John had just bent the truth a little. _Alright more than a little_.

He _was_ military. He _was_ higher ranking then Corporal Lyons. He just wasn’t there on a spot inspection. Or you know, currently active.

Just as much as Sherlock wasn’t Mycroft technically but he was still a Holmes.

Which was why John didn’t believe for one damn second that Sherlock was the fraud he claimed to be—

The doctor stopped himself from going any further along that train of thought. Now wasn’t the time.

Right now he needed to regroup.

As he finished his nearly cold coffee, John plugged in his mobile and opened the call log. As he suspected there were two calls from the clinic, one from Sarah’s personal mobile and one unknown number.

It had come in last night around 9-ish, which was either when John was flooring his second assailant or when he was in the middle of being processed. The police had already confiscated his belonging by then.

He tapped on the number, bringing up the call details. Well at least the arrangement of digit’s looked familiar. It had the grouping of a mobile phone. The mystery caller didn’t leave a voicemail, not that John had expected one.

What would it have been even, ten minutes of silence?

Sighing, John placed his phone down on a stretch of counter and headed for the bathroom, ignoring the mirror until he could get a shower in. It wouldn’t help his face per say, but it would still make him feel a little less like shite on legs.

He hadn’t meant to take so long but after three minutes letting the shower rain down on his back alone, by the time the doctor twisted the taps off, the water was starting to get uncomfortable.

As John toweled his damp hair, he wiped away the condensation from the glass over the sink and scowled.

Yeah that looked about as bad as it felt.

The area under his left eye was a kaleidoscope of colors. Mostly the deep purples and reds of fresh bruising, eventually turning yellow and brown when it began to heal. There was a broken cluster of blood vessels where a knuckle had impacted directly with the bone, and another just below his bottom lip where it felt like John’s lower cuspid and surrounding teeth were too big for his jaw.

Tonguing the area with a hiss, the doctor pushed at his teeth for looseness, but everything felt safely stuck in there to John’s relief. He didn’t fancy needing to make a dental appointment.

He turned his face to the right a little more, seeing the bruising spread along his chin before fading into a still puffy cheek. Thankfully most of the worst swelling had gone down, though even as he cooled from the shower, the skin on the left side of his face radiated heat. He was way overdue for some ice. But, better late than never.

The only thing that had gone unscathed was his forehead, which, although bit of sensitivity when he expressed with his brow looked fine.

Well, if he was going to go with a mugging his appearance certainly fit the bill. At least to the average viewer.

 _Let’s see…dark stretch of street, two blokes get the jump on me, a few hits to the face and then off with my money_.

It would do.

Pulling open the medicine cupboard, John plucked out the small bottle of Paracetamol and palmed off the cap, downing two with a handful of water from the faucet.

As the pills dragged their way down his gullet, he looked at the face reflected in the mirror, finding it almost foreign. He struggled to recall the last time he took a good look at himself, and not in the midst of concentrating on something else like brushing his teeth or shaving.

Beyond the facial trauma, the skin under John’s lower eyelids was shadowed, discolored and sunken from lack of a proper night’s sleep. Overall he looked gaunt. Had he lost weight?

Typically that first place that showed signs but…he _was_ eating. Maybe not as much as he use to—his appetite lately was flighty but, it wasn’t like he was starving. _Christ._

Letting his head fall forward, John gripped the edge of the sink, fingers squeezing a few times at the porcelain. He closed his eyes, a long breath hissing through his nostrils as something sinking passed over him. Smothering. Threatening to rush over his head if he didn’t just—

John pushed himself away from the sink and quickly left the bathroom.

 

.-- .- .../... ---

 

Greg stood in the sitting room of 221B later that night with a quiet bewilderment, his gaze slowly sweeping across the surroundings he’d been in countless times. It was so…

_Clean._

John couldn’t fault him for his reaction. It was a stark contrast from what it usually looked like.

Gone were the strewn papers littering nearly every surface, the stacks of random books, the boxes filled with files, the odd bric-a-brac stashed about in the sort of organization only a loon or a lazy arse would utilize. The kitchen—as John pulled two bottles of stout Greg had brought over for them from fridge, undone caps pinging on the countertop—looked like an actual _kitchen_.

The center table was completely clear; the counters were organized; if Lestrade were to look in said fridge, it was reasonable to assume he’d find no bits of people.

There…he would be wrong.

Tidying was about the first thing John immersed himself with in early months after the funeral; finding something rather cathartic in cleansing and organizing the upheaval he was experiencing.

Mrs. Hudson offered to help, but the doctor had politely refused. Though he did let her eventually take up the dusting, since it wreaked havoc with John’s sinuses whenever he tried. He’d wondered how he survived before when it dawned on him the flat was _never_ dusted. Sherlock wouldn’t allow it. Hoovering and straightening was fine but heaven help you if you disturbed the fine caking of dust on any surface.

And when it came to the fridge, he’d taken no prisoners. Clearing and scrubbing it until John had reached one of the bottom crisper drawers and found a baggy of human pinkies in the far back corner, buried under a sack of onions.

The doctor had been about to bin it when he noticed the short note scrolled on the other side in black marker on the bag’s label:

  _Double jointed pinkies (4c) – 22/04/11_

_John, do refrain yourself from tossing these, I will later. Promise. - S_

A laugh escaped him at seeing the initial. Why had Sherlock thought it necessary to sign it? Of course it was him, who the hell else would keep refrigerated phalanges?

And despite his fervent cleansing, John was leery to follow through. He read the message again, several times, then over parts of it. The way the detective had written his name, the word _promise_.

Without a second thought, John had carefully folded the bag up and tucked it back into the corner where he unearthed it.

Greg startled a little as a bottle neck was tapped against his arm. He’d been still mulling over the flat when John had approached him. Accepting the drink, the DI nodded in slow appreciation. “The place looks...” He stalled, taking a swig of beer, eying the room again.

“Less like a calamity?” John offered, taking a pull himself, the thick richness of the stout going down blissfully smooth. Greg had damn good taste in beer. John couldn’t fathom just then why they never made a pub crawl together.

Lestrade chuckled airily, the sound whistling over the rim of his bottle as he took another drink. “I was gonna say riot zone, but yeah.”

Both men laughed at that, the noise slowly dying off before the flat was filled with silence once more. “You hungry?” John asked abruptly, compelled into action and sliding a coaster across the coffee table before setting his beer down.

“Yeah sure.” Lestrade replied, tossing his jacket on the arm of the couch and sitting down as John swept back into the kitchen.

“Any preferences?”

“Uh…no not really.” He called out, settling back into the battered green leather. The telly had been dragged into the center of the room in anticipation of whatever they decided to do that evening. Greg searched for the remote, rescuing it from being nearly sucked down between two sofa cushions.

John was in the midst of selecting take-out menus from where he had filed them away in a drawer when he heard the television pop on, shifting voices and sounds as Lestrade must have been flipping through channels.

After a minute or two there was a triumphant hoot followed by a shout. “You mind Arsenal?”

With a short stack of menus in hand the doctor came to the doorway of the kitchen. “Well I’m more of a Hibs man myself.” He shrugged. “Who they playing?”

“WBA.” Lestrade gave him a smug grin.

John smirked. “I never took you for a sadist.”

Just then the front door thudded closed below and up twittered a _yoooo-hoooo_.

It was only as he heard the light tap of kitten heels coming up the stairs that John remembered the state of his face. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit—_

“John!” Mrs. Hudson announced as she rounded the corner and came into the flat carrying a weighted plastic bag. “Mrs. Turner sent me home with some left over stew I thought you migh—OH!”

The landlady gasped, raising a hand to her gaping mouth and nearly dropping the bag. “John what happened?!” She exclaimed into her fingers, shuffling over to him, her free hand extending to towards his cheek. John gently shied away.

“It’s uh…mugging.” He brushed it off, taking the bag from her before she really did drop it. He didn’t dare to look over at Greg as he shamefully slunk into the kitchen, already sensing the old woman’s hackles rise.

Mrs. Hudson turned her attention to the sofa and glared, making Lestrade balk mid-sip of his beer.

“And what are you doing about this _hmmm_?” She demanded, hands resting on her hips. “Why on earth are you sitting _here_ when you should be out _there_ catching whatever horrible person did this to him!”

Greg’s mouth parted at a loss as he searched for a response.

“The whole Met is on it.” John replied for him as he returned, shooting the other man an apologetic look over Mrs. H’s shoulder, letting it drop as she turned round to regard him. “Greg’s just here to…to see how I’m doing.”

“ _Yeah_.” Lestrade replied sluggishly, taking on a grave tone. “Just making sure John’s alright after his terrible ordeal.”

With a tisk Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on John’s arm, giving it a solid squeeze. “You poor dear. I’ll bring something up for you later. Do you have enough food? Oh I wish you’d take better care of yourself—”

“It’s fine, really I’m fine.” The doctor urged, taking the tutting landlady by the shoulder and attempting to usher her back towards the door. They were nearly across the threshold when Lestrade spoke up.

“Don’t be modest John; they had you at gun point.” He chided, eyes widening a little. “You could of died.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson gasped, clutching the front of her coat and halting in her tracks. John bunched up his features as if pained before flashing an incensed glower behind her back at the lounging DI.

Lestrade gave him a wry smile in return and took a pull of his beer.

It was only after agreeing to have tea _and_ lunch with her tomorrow that Mrs. Hudson finally relented her coddling and retired to her flat downstairs. John came in from the hall, simmering quietly.

Greg glanced up from the telly, a look of pure guiltlessness on his mug.“So…dinner?” He sucked at his teeth, motioning with his bottle at the menus in John’s tight fingers.

Dinner ended up consisting of Indian food from a place thirty minutes away on foot, fifteen by taxi depending on traffic. It was a restaurant Sherlock had introduced John to in their early days cultivating the “ _Takeaway Network”_ as the doctor liked to call it. Sherlock had adored good Indian cuisine and the only restaurant he deemed of quality didn’t deliver to their neck of the woods.

At least to any address other than 221B remarkably enough.

So remarkable it was at that point John began noticing a suspicious pattern between the eateries Sherlock _preferred_ and the ones having an affiliation with the detective in some way or another.

John had hesitated even adding it to their dinner selection that night. He hadn’t ordered from there since last spring and felt more than a bit apprehensive about using a perk that really wasn’t his to use anymore.

The menu was at the bottom of the stack when Greg paused over it, admitting he’d never actually had Indian before. That coupled with the fact John had been practically living off a steady diet of Chinese for the last few weeks gave him the extra push to call one last time.

Caffe Tandoori was genuinely pleased to hear from him nonetheless, offering their sincerest condolences which John curtly thanked them for as he stood huddled in the kitchen out of earshot, stretching the tightness in his chest with a deep breath. He managed to keep a level voice as he placed their order.

And though their food arrived in an astonishing amount of time and with no bill attached, John wouldn’t let the delivery boy leave without a significant tip.

“Oh _hell_.” Lestrade practically moaned as took his first bite of chicken tikka masala—a recommendation from the doctor along with a side of veggie samosa. He proceeded to greedily dig into it like buried treasure on a bed of basmati rice. John grinned; pleased he made the right choice as he dipped a chunk of naan bread into his lamb rogan josh.

They watched most of the match while they ate, both remembering that one had to actually _have_ a Netflix account to use it. Fancy that. John did have a robust movie selection via DVDs but there was something comfortably non-specific about just taking in the game. No explosions or drama, the only tension was from the teams vying for points.

Later as it looked well over for West Bromwich—much to Greg’s delight, Lestrade had eased the volume down on the television as they got to chatting.

He told John about work and how the Chief Superintendent was still looming over the department but at least he and Sally were able to keep their jobs. At seeing the doctor’s thinly checked disdain at the mention of sergeant Donavon, he’d quickly changed the subject and John was shocked to find out Greg had filed for divorce last week.

The relationship between the DI and his wife had been strained over the past year, if the lack of wedding band on Greg’s finger back when they had the Baskerville case was any indication. Not to mention Sherlock’s not so subtle hints at their ongoing troubles. Lestrade ended up moving out of their house shortly after. That at least John knew about.

“We tried couples counseling.” Greg remarked casually, sounding like he was discussing anything else but the slow deterioration of his marriage. “But at that point we were just going through the motions, you know?”

John nodded; a little too familiar with the concept then he would like to admit.

“Then again, I think we were for a lot longer than I realized.” He added with a half-hearted smile.

“Still.” The doctor replied thoughtfully. “Must have been difficult. For the both of you.”

Lestrade scoffed quietly, taking a sip of his second round of stout with a satisfied gasp. “You sound like my lawyer.”

“How’s that working out?” John winced, recalling when his folks got separated. With the shear amount of time it took his parents to quit screaming at each other and divvy their assets the lawyer bills were astronomical. Luckily for his mum, her attorney was a friend of hers and cut her quite a hefty discount on her services.

Greg shrugged. “The guy I’ve got is a brother of one of my sergeants. Plus Hill’s been pretty good about the whole thing. Probably because I’m giving her the bloody house.”

The DI grimaced, raising his bottle up to his mouth before muttering into it derisively. “For her and Mr. _PE_.”

“You know, I've seen all _sorts_ of ways people just up and vanish.” John offered with a dark smirk.

Lestrade nearly shot stout through his nose.

Coughing a little Greg pointed his bottle at him. “I didn’t hear that.” He took another swig around his laughter. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

They sat in silence for a moment after that, with only the weak hum of the telly and a small periodic drip echoing from the kitchen tap. John felt it like a knot cinching in his stomach.

The doctor cleared his throat. There was something he’d been meaning to say all night. “Listen I’m—sorry about Mrs. H tearing you off a strip before with the whole—” John sighed, gesturing to his face, embarrassment evident in his tone.

“Well...” Greg admitted, looking off into the room with another shrug. “she’s just worried about ya.” _She’s not the only one you berk_ was left unsaid somewhere in there.

“Would’of been nice though being in on the _official_ story.” The DI cocked a disapproving brow, though there was a trace smile on his lips. “Since I’m supposed to be organizing a manhunt apparently.”

Chuckling, John tongued over the better side of his bottom lip. Sarah had reacted much the same, though not to the same degree of alarm as Mrs. Hudson. After John had pulled himself together enough to call the clinic that afternoon. He gave Sarah the briefest of recounts and apologized for not being in that morning for his shift. She told him not to dare apologize and that she was just relieved he was alright.

It was all sorts of wrong, but John had to confess he missed her being concerned for him over something other than his job performance.

After the whole Tong incident they tried to give it a go. But time and work and Sherlock had gotten the better of them. Notwithstanding a gallant effort and a trip to New Zealand. In regards to Sarah Sawyer, John just never made it past the sofa. He rightly couldn’t complain though, since he still had a job come the week they returned. Still, bruised egos.

“Right well, next time I decide to get arrested, we’ll coordinate.” John replied, his laughter edging on fraudulent. A quick glance at Lestrade showed he wasn’t as amused either.

_Here it comes._

“So what’s been going on?” Greg shifted in his seat, drawing a leg across the couch between them as he rested his beer on the side of his knee. It was such an innocuous question on the surface, but by Lestrade’s tone, the doctor was rather certain he wasn’t looking to hear about his day.

For a moment John considered telling him everything. Every messy bit. The non-stop work, the non-existent sleep. The non-existent _him_. Even the bloody prank phone calls.

Yet the only thing that slipped from him after mulling it over was: “It’s quiet.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but said nothing.

As if proving a point, John took a drink of his beer, lips plunking off the rim loudly in the flat. _Too fucking quiet_. What he wouldn’t give for a crash or the squeak of a bow abusing strings. The eruption of excitement as a piece of complicated puzzle tumbled into place.

“ _The winking eye John…it denotes the end of a sentence!”_

John looked down at the bottle in his hand, gently rolling beads of condensation down its surface into the fabric of his jeans. “When I’m out there it’s not so bad.” He nodded up towards the street outside the window. “But when I come home…it’s _...this_.” He gestured to the flat in general, a weariness falling over him. John’s eyes briefly went to the empty leather chair before skittering away to the slowly dying fire in the hearth.

_“And look here, the name Ellen appears. E being the most frequently used letter in the entire English alphabet.”_

“It’s like living in a vacuum.” He murmured, taking another long pull, then another. Trying to parse what he’d been feeling lately. Or hadn’t been feeling for that matter. It was hard to put it into words.

He wasn’t very good at this; talking about himself. Never was really.

But if there was anyone in their little universe—that he was still talking to—that understood what it was like existing in Sherlock’s orbit and then suddenly not, it was Lestrade. Maybe even better than John did.

Greg had been acquainted with Sherlock far longer than he ever had. Knew him through what John could only assume were rougher times. Drugs. Rehab. Possible relapses. A whole stretch of Sherlock’s life John was never privy to. But then again maybe the detective had never intended him _to_ know.

“I’ll probably have to move out eventually anyway.” He continued. “I can’t keep up with the bills on my own and I won’t ask Mrs. Hudson to lower the rent. I’m only paying one half as it is.”

John swallowed audibly, working at his mouth as the obvious answer hung in the air. “I won’t…mmm. I’m not having anyone else live here.” He cleared his throat, adding stiffly. “With me.”

Frankly the idea of someone other than Sherlock living there, regardless of how sensible it was financially, was almost as disturbing to John as Sherlock not being there in the first place. Ridiculously possessive as that may be.

Greg simply nodded, listened, and John was inexpressibly thankful for it. He wasn’t looking for a solution and being able to state his thoughts out loud, to just talk, felt more beneficial than any advice or pity he usually received.

They spoke for a little longer, John briefly touching on his extreme working habits as of late, admitting that maybe he should ease off a bit. He didn’t mention his insomnia or the strange phone calls. Though he figured the former was evident enough just by looking at him.

As Greg was slipping on his trench coat to leave he asked. “What do ya say about doing this again next week?”

It would have been so easy to just dodge it. Claim he had to see about his schedule and then never contact Lestrade. Let this slip through the cracks.

But John found even with his previous hesitation about tonight, it had felt for the most part rather effortless.

It felt good.

“Yeah. Alright.” He replied after a spell, earning him a warm smile from the DI.

Lestrade adjusted his collar, regarding him firmly. “Oh and…next time you’ve got the bright idea to start a brawl with some tosser, you bloody well better ring me for backup.”

The doctor rolled his eyes but nodded, both men laughing before Greg headed for the stairs and John shut the door behind him.

Before the silence around him became too weighty, John got to straightening up. He binned the take-away containers and brought the empty beer bottles outside for recycling, finding himself moving at a relaxed pace. He felt a refreshing sense of ease about him.

As John readied himself to turn in he took a brief look over his face with a sigh. He really had been an idiot to let those two prats get the better of him. But, this was the bed he made, he was going to have to sleep in it.

In his room, John drew back his covers and set his alarm—an hour later than his usual time considering he had nothing to do tomorrow, or for the next three days for that matter. He switched on the radio built into the bedside clock, slowly tuning it until classical music poured out of the speakers. Adjusting the volume down, John switched off his light and climbed into bed.

He lay there for some time in the dark, shrill violin notes rising above the hiss of a weak station frequency.

John closed his eyes and pretended.

 

.- .-.. --- -. .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know zilch about football but did some quick research on google to find someone suggesting that John would be a Hibernian fan based on ACD being from Edinburgh, so I thought that was perfect. I based Lestrade liking Arsenal from an interview he did here: http://www.rupert-graves.com/media/mb032.html
> 
> Also if you’re a West Bromwich Albion fan, I apologize for my obvious inference that your team is not so good. I just based it off the stats of total losses vs Arsenal. 
> 
> By the way at the time of me writing this part of the chapter, there was an Arsenal vs WBA match coming up on 5/24 so it’ll be interesting to see what the actual final score was by the time this gets posted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is a mess...

There’s something immensely rage inducing about waking up before one’s alarm. Seriously murderous. Like someone stolen something unremarkable to them but valuable to you. Even more frustrating when the thief was your own damn brain.

John roused with a gangly snort, looking blearily over at his clock and groaning when he registered the time.

Ten minutes.

Ten bloody minutes. Too short to try and fall back asleep before the alarm sounded.

Rolling over, John groped for the switch and flicked it off, returning to his position on his back with a soft grunt. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles, feeling the trapped grit dislodge and scratch away. Though it was amazing he had any trapped there at all.

He’d dropped off quickly the night before—a rarity when he wasn’t done-in from working. And while the low classical music did a marvelous job lulling him to sleep, it didn’t _keep_ him asleep.

John had woken up several times during the night, tossing, turning, readjusting pillows and blankets. Each new position felt comfortable at first but soon soured and he would try another.

After getting fed-up round 3:00am he’d gotten out of bed, deciding to give the reset tactic a go. The principle was fairly simple: if you couldn’t seem to fall asleep in at least 30 to 45 minutes you were to get up and do something until you felt tired.

So John had hit the bog, got some water, gazed out onto the dark stillness of Baker Street from one of the sitting room’s windows, and then went back to bed to read until he got drowsy again. He had some success with that, buying him a few consistent hours, but at that point the damage was already done. John could feel the lost rest in the ache of his limbs and the tentative start of a migraine in the front of his skull.

Abandoning the option of a lie-in in favor of a cuppa and a pain-reliever, John threw off his covers and slipped on his robe against the early morning chill, however plodding barefoot downstairs into the quiet main of the flat.

It was undeniably strange, but the silence around him _now_ didn’t bother him so much as it did at night. Whether it was the daylight itself: a cooler hue at this time, or the bustle of life outside and in: people walking by on the pavement, cars rumbling past, the murmur of Mrs. Hudson’s television down below—John wasn’t sure. It just felt more tolerable then it did when night rolled in and world around him seemed to promptly empty.

John pulled himself back from where he was staring blankly into space, a tea bag dangling in one hand. He quickly dropped the bag into an empty mug on the counter and switched the kettle on to boil, the urge to relocate overtaking him.

He showered with a proficiency he hadn’t utilized since his army days and gave a brief inspection of his face when he exited—still looked godawful but no surprise there. He stayed moving, getting back in the kitchen just as the kettle began squealing. While his tea seeped John dressed, opting for jeans and a ratty old long-sleeve cotton shirt. It was his first day off after all, no need to dress to impress.

Sinking into his chair, John plopped the morning paper next to him, folded open to the daily crossword puzzle and descended on a particularly strong cup of Earl Grey. He was out of milk, which was surprising considering he was the only one drinking it. He would have opted for a dash of sugar instead but he was out of that too. In fact John had a pretty good suspicion he was out of a lot of things that couldn’t be begotten by a telephone.

Well, there _were_ pinkies. So he had that going for him.

Perhaps a trip to the Tesco was in order soon… _later_. At the moment he couldn’t rightfully make himself get up if he tried. Now that he’d stopped, John could feel the lethargy of deprived rest throughout his limbs.

Taking another gulp of tea, John placed his mug down and dragged the paper into his lap, digging out a pencil from under a magazine on the side table next to him.

John found himself staring at the boxes as a yawn back-built in his throat. He sniffed and shook his head, briefly widening his eyes to focus on the Across list, his gaze skimming over the clues and halting on the forth one:

_‘Dunderhead’…five letters…_

_Idiot?_

John snickered and lightly filled it in, jumping then to #1 Down that now contained the first ‘I’ of idiot.

_‘It may be boring’. Three letters._

“Breathing.” The doctor muttered to himself, tapping his pencil on the paper’s surface while he mulled it over. _This_ or _Today_ came to mind too even if they didn’t fit the allotted space.

There was a habitual relish he felt in doing battle with the daily puzzle but today it was barely holding his attention. His mind kept stalling, zoning out to nothing in particular.

John shifted in his seat and tried to refocus. Granted he wasn’t exactly in any rush to complete this or anything else for that matter. The only thing on tap today was lunch with Mrs. Hudson and that wouldn’t be happening till at least noon.

Abandoning the clue for now he skipped to #2 Down. Three letters with a ‘D’ in the middle, the clue being ‘ _Big deal_ ’.

 _Ado?_ It did fit…he added it.

#1 Across was ‘ _Stinging comments_ ’, five letters, now with an ‘A’ in it.

_Stinging…stinging. Right.  
_

The longer John looked at the clue, the more the words started to muddle together. He shifted in his chair again, leaning an elbow on the armrest and fitting a curled fist into his temple. _Stinging comments…_

Nothing was coming to mind so he moved on, tapping his pencil rhythmically, each impact sounding softer and softer…

_17 across… eleven letters…Thoroughly…_

The clatter of porcelain jittering against porcelain shot through John like a small electric shock.

He bolted upright in his chair with a gust of an inhale, hands coming to the armrests as if he were about to spring out at a moment’s notice.

“Oh so sorry dear! I didn’t see you were sleeping.” Mrs. Hudson cringed at him as she nudged a tray farther onto the coffee table containing a cozied teapot and two cups and saucers—which accounted for the sound—and two wrapped items on plates.

Was he? John looked himself over, the paper was still in his lap, though in his stirring had slipped between his thighs. His pencil meanwhile had completely vanished somewhere. He glanced up to the sitting room widows and balked at the shear amount of sunlight pouring in—far warmer than it had been. _What the hell time is it_? It appeared early afternoon, but that couldn’t be. Could it?

“Although you look like you needed a bit of a kip.” She waved a mothering finger at him, making her way into the kitchen. “It was so quiet up here I had thought you’d gone out!”

Getting his bearings, John shoved back his sleeve to squint the time and nearly gasped.

Yeah he kipped alright…for _four_ _hours_. It was 1:21pm.

Letting out a quiet sigh of disappointment, the doctor placed a hand to his neck, angling his head to work out the stiffness. _Well that’s fan-bloody-tastic._ John could almost hear Sherlock warning him about falling asleep in his chair. How it would do a number on his back and neck. Adding with questionable sincerity that he’d be completely useless to the detective then.

Martha’s voice floating in from the kitchen broke John from his mental self-flagellation. “You like ham don’t you John?” There was the sound of thudding drawers and then the rush of water in the sink.

John’s first inclination was a resounding ‘ _What_?’ but held it back for further assessment. He regarded the tray the landlady had brought up again; specifically the two wrapped bundles and recognized after _far_ too long that they were sandwiches, more than likely curtsey of Speedy’s next door.

Ah, that made a bit more sense. Upon trying to reply, John’s vocal cords felt coated in fresh tarmac. “ _Uh_ …” He squelched, clearing his throat and tried for something less froggy. “Yeah. Ham’s great.” Curbing a wince from that stellar response, he flinched when there was damp folded linen suddenly edged into his peripheral.

“Here, put this on your face.” Mrs. Hudson indicated towards the man’s peacock of a cheek.

John narrowed his eyes at it questionably. The cloth was lightly steaming, held close enough that he could actually feel the heat gently emitting from it.

“You’re not the only one with medical knowledge dear.” She said with a calm decisiveness and pushed it into his hand before navigating around the coffee table towards the couch.

John admired her for a moment with a quiet respect, albeit also with a small dose of wonder as Martha filled the pair of teacups with dark rich looking tea.

She _was_ right. 24 hours after an injury causing bruising should be tended to with on and off heat treatments. The first 24 were for cold applications to reduce swelling. The heat meanwhile helped with blood circulation to promote faster healing.

John couldn’t help but smile a little and placed the compress to his cheek. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Hudson waved it off and scrunched her nose. She took a seat on the sofa and proceeded to unwrap and re-plate the sandwiches, setting each out next to a cup of tea. When everything was in place to her liking she patted the space next to her.

They ate lunch sitting side by side, John taking a passive participation in the conversation and letting Mrs. H ramble on. He found himself complacent to just sit back and hear about the goings on of Mrs. Turner, or her ‘married ones’ though the landlady fell abruptly quiet at that, seeming to catch herself and glancing to him with a drawn up bottom lip. “Sorry.” She broke, voice a little shaky, her hand clenching in her lap.

Though John had been adamant over the years that he was _not_ Sherlock’s boyfriend—or lover, or partner, or _special_ friend or whatever the hell people always assumed about them—in that instant he couldn’t bring himself to make an argument against the insinuation.

As absurd as it was…John truly missed it.

So instead of his usual retort, he simply gave Mrs. Hudson a reassuring smile.

With a sniff and a tiny huff, Martha found her voice again and rebounded into the latest gossip that made up her realm and John strove as best he could to keep up. Doing so reminded him however of trying to revise for an exam an hour beforehand:

Q: Who just bought a new flat screen telly even though his wife has been nagging him for months for a new washer?

A: Mr. Sutton.

Q: True or False, Ida Greenbury from Friday night Bridge _just_ had her eyebrows lifted?

A: False. She had lip injections as well.

“We use to chat about your adventures while we played.” Mrs. Hudson mused on the subject of her weekend card game. “They couldn’t believe I housed the two of you.”

Chuckling into his tea cup, John downed the last drop. It was only after the cup hitting the saucer was a little too resonating in the room that the doctor noted Martha had gone quiet.

“I know living with him wasn’t easy.” She continued softly when he looked up, placing her hand over John’s, her skin well-worn but warm. And though her fingers were thin, Mrs. Hudson’s grip was as strong as ever. “But you made him so very happy.”

John averted his gaze to the rolled up linen compress, long gone cold on his empty plate and swallowed thickly, breathing shallower to remain smooth.

Martha gave his fist another tight squash. “He was a different man before he met you John. Well, you remember…” She chortled, snuffling noisily then scolding herself. “ _Oh_ —look at me.” Reaching for a nearby napkin, Mrs. Hudson pushed it under the rims of her glasses to dot at her eyes.

“The best thing that could have ever happen to Sherlock was having you as a partner.”

John let out a sob of a laugh before curbing it.

“Not too sure about that.” He muttered wetly, clearing his throat. As he looked up to Martha again, his lower eyelids burned. The landlady cooed at him, placing a hand to his good cheek. He had to tighten his lips to keep them still.

“Well you were.” She insisted, gazing at him fondly. Brimming herself with a bitter sweet sort of sadness. “You made him a better man.”

Mrs. Hudson felt John’s hand twist round in hers as his eyes traveled away and to the space between his legs. She clasped his palm in return, thumb smoothly brushing over his. “No matter what…remember that.”

He gave faint nod, finding it nearly impossible to reply any other way. Deep down John wanted to believe her. He wanted to so desperately it _hurt_. Instead of just anger, he felt something else welling up inside him. And that hurt too. It ached. It swelled behind his ribs and pressed against his lungs, crushing the air out of them. His shallow breathing no longer helping.

And then there was an arm about his shoulders, drawing him in and god help him…John slumped into it, rotating his frame and resting his forehead on a soft shoulder. Martha’s floral perfume was light under his nose. Lavender and rose and something about it—something about the familiarity of it and the embrace and the warmth drove the tightness from John’s chest in a great gasp.

Suddenly it’s all too much.

Suddenly he was weeping. Openly. Involuntarily in heaving pants and sobs like a sluice gate was lifted and out rushed the built up waters threatening to drown him.

Wrapping her other arm around him, Mrs. Hudson pulled John in tighter, hushing him. A hand went to the back of the doctor’s head and slowly petting over his hair, down to the nape of his neck, again and again. John wound his arms around her petite waist, gripping at her fine cardigan as another surge gushed out. He whined something that to him sounded incomprehensible under the high-pitch hum in his ears.

Somehow though Mrs. H made sense of it enough to respond. “Yes you can.” Her hand cupping round his tense neck, the pressure oddly soothing while the other rubbed along his curled back.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion finally taking its toll. Perhaps it was the relentless piling of these days, these months, like weights on his shoulders and the permission to let them drop. Whatever it was, John buried his face and purged himself until his eyes stopped clenching shut and his breathing began to ease.

He drew away then, spotting the large damp splotches he’d made on Mrs. H’s shoulder, letting out a remorseful and equally embarrassed. “ _Bugger_.”

“Language dear.” Martha warned lightly, then tisked. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Feel better?” She handed him a napkin which John promptly used to trumpet out the built up gunk in his nose. He snorted loudly, hummed in reply, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm.

If John were to describe it, he felt extraordinarily— _lighter_.

Though he could still sense the lingering pull of fatigue. He’d be more than tempted to stretch out on the couch right now and doze if it wouldn’t completely muck up his sleep schedule. What little schedule he had.

“Good.” She handed him an extra napkin before poring him another spot of tea. When John was done blotting and blowing and snuffling she handed him the cup, which he gladly accepted. He sipped at it, almost melting into the comforting heat. He was sure he looked a right mess. Eyes pinked; cheeks blotchy enough that the rosiness made the bruises look even harsher.

Mrs. H stayed with him a little while longer while John got himself together, though she spoke no more of Sherlock. Instead she chattered on about one of her favorite soaps…something with doctors and the most ridiculous melodrama that John couldn’t help but laugh.

It was 3pm by the time they parted ways, Martha informing him that she was having dinner with Mrs. Turner in a few hours and John was very welcome to come himself but he declined. He decided to make the best out of the rest of the day and do some much needed grocery shopping.

Rolling with the new found momentum, the doctor grabbed his wallet and coat and escorted Mrs. Hudson back to her flat before thanking her again for lunch and…he faltered, glancing down at his shoes. He wasn’t too sure how to express how wonderful she was to let him unload like that. It had been ugly, exposing and unlike him. He hadn’t even cried that bad in front of Ella in their first session just after Sherlock died.

“Just…thank you.” John replied; giving her the sturdiest smile he could muster.

“Of course dear.” She raised her arms and waved him in for another hug. John obliged. “Remember what I said, hmm?”

John nodded against her shoulder. He would try at least. He pulled away quickly with a sharp clearing of his throat, fearing anymore of this and he’d be set off again. One emotional exorcizing was enough for one day.

“There’s a lad.” Mrs. Hudson sighed contentedly and shooed him off.

 

-.-- --- ..-

 

Time passed, as it’s in want to do.

John had his good days and his bad days. Though the good days were just the uneventful ones and the bad ones left him either short-tempered or wrecked inside, sometimes both. If he were to hazard a guess where he stood on the grand steps of grief it was dancing between Anger and Depression. Then again, John was starting to think he might have been volleying amongst the two for a while now.

He kept on with his weekly dinner meetups with Greg; sometimes they would eat in, working through the flat’s ample selection of menus. Sometimes they would eat out. John making his first physical appearance at Caffe Tandoori in ages when Lestrade nearly drove him there by panda car after the DI found out about the whole lack of delivery.

_“You can’t just give a bloke a taste of heaven and then tell him it’s too bloody far away to deliver!”_

As part of their evening activities, John had bowed and forked out the £5.99 a month for a Netflix account. Throughout the rest of March they worked their way through the first series of Father Ted.

Mrs. Hudson stopped in daily as she usually did—bring up the post, a fresh pot of tea with biscuits, some tidbit of gossip that John was finding he was alarmingly abreast of now. Every so often they would have lunch or tea together. John didn’t have a repeat of that day however.

He cut down his clinic work to four days a week, on call every other Friday. Sarah was pleased but still urged him to take it easy.

John’s sleep hadn’t improved. But that was nothing new. He was nonetheless seriously considering getting a prescription for a sleep aid. Something he could ween the dosage down from when he’d gotten more regulated.

April rolled in bringing with it rain upon rain and Mrs. H had sequestered him one Friday afternoon mid-month to see if he could do something about the leak in the stairwell ceiling on the same level as 221B. He assured her his knowledge of roofs and leaks wasn’t exactly professional. However the landlady had simply patted him on the cheek, wished him luck, and went out to her doctor’s appointment.

He was currently standing on the landing, rain hissing against said roof high above him. Already there was a sizable wet patch blooming along the plaster. Several varying colored rings could be seen up there from previous leaking, a murky watercolor in browns and yellows.

Well, he supposed he could at least try and find the source. Which meant going up into the loft.

The drop door into the attic was located right passed his bedroom. Tucking a torch under his armpit, John reached up on his toes and grasped the pull cord, yanking the door open with a groan from the hinges. He unfolded the attached wooden ladder and flicked his light on, shining it up into the dim space above his head.

With a huff he climbed up, stopping half way when he could see most of the loft from his eye-level. Moving the torch around, John shined it on the beams, looking for any signs of soaked wood or wetness. Wherever this leak was it must have been deeper than he could see from here because the rafters looked bone dry.

Reluctantly he mounted the rest of the steps, carefully stepping up onto a stretch of particle board acting as a makeshift floor. The doctor had to be careful where he tread, since the boards didn’t cover the entire surface of the attic and it would be an easy thing to step down between two beams and break through the ceiling. And John didn't fancy inadvertently installing a skylight in his room.

Moving farther inward, John crept along, shining his light here and there. He honestly hadn’t been up here since he moved most of Sherlock’s things into storage. God he hoped nothing was being leaked on. He had tried to pick the best looking spot, nearby the Christmas decorations where the wood looked undamaged. But that didn’t mean that in the time since something hadn’t decided to corrode and start dripping.

Unable to curb his worry, John moved over to the area he stacked his flatmate’s boxes and was more them relieved to find them whole and dry. As his light slowly passed over them, John’s own handwriting labeling each of the boxes contents came into view. He paused at one marked: _Case Files – 3/2011 to 6/2011_

There had been a few cases that John hadn’t put up on the blog. At the time of he’d been too busy and after what happened…he couldn’t bring himself to even look at them let alone recount them for other people.

He suddenly remembered what Mrs. Hudson said. How she and her Bridge mates would talk about them.

Perhaps he could now…write about them that is. They weren’t particularly harrowing if the doctor recalled correctly. In fact two of the cases remained unsolved. But maybe, it would be nice to have them see the light of day after all this time.

John made his way over to the boxes, wavering on the edge of one of the particle boards and nearly dropping his torch into the insulation. Christ he was like a B horror film. Which he dearly loved to watch but, the characters in them were usually dangerously barmy. His location was rather perfect for it though: alone in a creepy dark loft, preoccupied with reminiscing.

Pulling the box containing the files off the top of the stack, John set it on the ground, kneeling beside it. He dug his fingers into the seams of the cardboard flaps and pried them apart, instantly greeted by the smell of paper and just the faint hint of cigarette smoke.

Something clinched in John’s chest at the scent and he took in a slow stretching inhale against the tightness, his free hand gripping the rim of the box. As the ache passed he began to gently sift around through folders and notebooks, wafts of dust dancing in his torch's beam.

He spent the next two hours “looking” for the leak in the attic. John _certainly_ wasn’t sitting on the dusty floor reading through case files until he couldn’t breathe properly out of his nose. Giggling when he got to the one where Sherlock was forced to dress like a clown. _Oh_ that had been a hell of a case. Too bad he was under strict order that the matters of that particular caper remained classified.

Though, considering how he felt about certain individuals in high government standing, John might have just been willing to ignore the order.

He gathered the files and notes in the neatest stack he could and put some actual effort into trying to find the leak in the roof, pursuing a shadowy _pat pat pat pat_ near the North West corner of the attic. It was hard to see from his position, the flooring running out about a meter ahead of him, but as John moved his light over the sloping beams he believed he spotted a damp one. The dripping sound was definitely louder where he was standing.

Satisfied with his findings, the doctor worked his way back through the loft and all the way down to the sitting room, holding the files to him like some precious thing.

 

-.- . .--. -

 

It wasn’t until the last week in April that John received another anonymous phone call.

He didn’t pick up.

Then, come the second week in May there was another.

And then _another_. That had never happened before.

Not only were the calls one day after the next, they were from the _same_ number. That had also never happened before.

The second of the two had come in while John was in the middle of drafting his first blog post about the unwritten cases—four in all. Finishing his thought, John habitually fished out his buzzing mobile and was taken aback to see it was an unknown number. What struck the doctor besides the back to back calls was the time this one was coming in.

Usually his mystery caller targeted between 9pm and 12am. It was only 4 in the afternoon.

John hadn’t answered the call from last night and he was seriously debating not accepting this one either. What was the point really? Maybe if he just ignored whoever this evidently bizarre person was, they would just give up and leave him alone.

Keeping his fortitude, the doctor placed the phone down nearby his wireless mouse and ignored it. It buzzed only once more before going silent.

He regarded it for a second before returning his attention back to his laptop, fingers poised to begin hen-pecking his narrative. John glanced over his notes trying to find his place when his mobile started going off again.

Sure enough, it was the same number. _Three times in a row? Someone's getting desperate_.

Sighing, John swiped the accept icon with his thumb. He had half a mind to tell them to call back later.

Upon connection, the line on the other end crackled softly.

The doctor stilled his movements and listened. Ordinarily these calls were dead silent but there was definitely something coming through. A sort of ruffling swishy sound beyond the static, like when your face brushed over a phone’s mic.

John took a chance and looked at the screen. It wasn’t a mobile phone number from what he could tell. He realized then that he hadn’t said hello. Or anything else for that matter, yet the call was still running.

Placing the phone back to his ear, John strained to hear something else, practically holding his breath.

He didn’t have long to wait for perhaps a half second later there was another sound. Like an inaudible voice. The words were quick and garbled but the tone was unmistakably irritated.

There was another harsh rustling and then a gusty whoosh followed by:

“Komm, beeilen Sie Arschloch!” 

John’s heart rocketed into his throat as he heard a soft growl shortly after and the call quickly disconnected.  

He slowly drew the mobile away and stared at it, realizing he was gaping when John licked over his lips and felt how dry the skin was. In fact his whole mouth seemed like it was lined with cotton.  

 _That was German_. He didn’t know the words themselves exactly but he knew bloody German when he heard it. 

Fetching his call log, John noted the number and opened a new tab in his browser. Clicking on the search box he began to type. 

 

.... .. -- / .-. .. --. .... -

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number 1 across by the way was Barbed. I randomly picked a crossword from USA today and was stupidly excited that it actually contained the word “Idiot” as an answer. It was the first one I figured out. Fate? MAYHAPS! 
> 
> Also, that getting up and walking around trick when you’re trying and failing to fall asleep is an actual thing. Supposedly it helps your body try the whole “Ok I’m getting drowsy let’s go to bed” thing over again. I’ve done it on many a restless night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. I ended up reworking the story arch twice until I had something that felt right and made sense. Not to mention this chapter turned out to be a bit of a buggaboo. More complex then it probably looks. But I hope the wait was worth it.
> 
> Also please please don't be shy. If you have the time leave me some love or speculation or complaints or hell your dearest hopes and dreams in the comments down below. I love hearing from people and I love discussing things. 
> 
> And finally I wanted to give a quick plug to an EPIC story called 'A Vintage Exceptionally to Your Liking' by the wonderful EmmyAngua. It's a fantastic AU fic and if you haven't checked it out then you should ASAP: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1932093

 

 

The search results for ‘49 30 55502899’ were frustratingly inconclusive. It did lead John however to a wiki article that helped decipher part of the phone number. Based on the area code it came from Berlin. And, it was a landline.

John nibbled on the cap of his biro, his teeth gently digging into the plastic. He didn’t know anyone from Berlin. He _did_ know a bloke from Cologne but that was decades ago when he did a semester abroad in college and John highly doubted they would be calling him. _Well, only one way to find out._

As John tapped the number and redialed it, he stood from his seat at the makeshift desk of a dining table, unable to stay idle. He paced between his chair and the kitchen doorway, half expecting for the call to ring indefinitely. Not that he was particularly sure of what he planned to say if someone did ans—

“Hallo?” Came a male voice: young, monotone, and so informal John had an abrupt fear he’d just rung someone at their home.

“Uh—hallo…” The doctor replied inelegantly, trying to evoke any scrap of German he remembered besides hello, good day, please, thank you, and a handful of expletives—which of course John could recall at the drop of a hat. Seemed a bit counterproductive to utilize those now though. He decided to press his luck:

“Sprechen sie English?”

“Nein, leider nicht. Nur Deutsch.” The man grunted, sounding just about finished with the conversation. He sighed heavily then asked John something equally unclear.“Haben Sie ein Zimmer benötigen?”

John recognized ‘no’, ‘German’, and ‘you’ from that response. Oh if only his sixth form German teacher, Frau Kaestner could see him now, she’d be sorely disappointed.

It was only partially his fault. _More like entirely._

What didn’t help was during his time in Cologne, the family John lodged with had a son his age that knew near impeccable English. And with having what amounted to a tall, blond, _very_ friendly walking translator named Conrad; his handle of the language fell to the wayside to make room for an extensive knowledge of German beer and cuisine…among other things.

John curbed a smirk, felt an unfurling in his gut he hadn’t experienced in ages. There were a few _activities_ that he’d engaged in that semester that couldn’t exactly be considered extra credit. Though it would have made for one hell of a curriculum.

Really all he needed to know was where or what he was calling to. “Was ist—” _Building—establishment—place, what the hell was the word?!_ John could remember bathroom, not that that helped. “Was ist _place_?” John asked tersely. “Bugger all, _what_ _am I calling_?”

“ _Place_?” The man on the other line repeated slowly, seeming to distinguish the word.

“Yes!” John cried excitedly. “I mean... _ja_ , place. Uh…bitte?”

“Herberge.” He replied then promptly mumbled a ‘scheiße’, which John recognized well enough. The next words were distant, like his contact had pulled the phone away from his mouth to speak with someone else in the room with him. There was a soft dialog that John could only interpret pieces of. Half from the language barrier and half from the volume, but he did hear a much accented ‘hostel’ being tossed back and forth by the end of it.

“ _Hos_ - _hostel_ ” The man came back. “Ist hostel.”

John grinned, a laugh of shear triumph escaping him. “Uh—wunderbar, danke! Um…auf—auf wiedersehen.”

“Es ist kein problem. Bitte sehr.” And with that the other line hung up.

Standing there staring into the glossy surface of his phone’s screen, John couldn’t ignore the looming thought that someone _could_ have just called him by accident three times.

Someone trying to call a mobile in London and were off by a number or two. It wasn’t like John stated his name in his voicemail greeting, so seemingly as long as the person was trying to reach a man, conceivably he could have been mistaken for them.

“ _Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.”_

It certainly wasn’t impossible.

But what about the rest of them? What was the chance of so many foreign calls to the wrong number? Either it was one hell of a coincidence or some poor sod out there was having the worst luck ever.

John made his way over to his laptop and the small organized mess of notes and files laid out for an upcoming blog entry. He produced a legal-sized notepad from under a newspaper dated from last year—the headline:

## Chinese Restaurant Owner’s Death Ruled an Accident.

#### Investigation by police and local consulting sleuth prove inconclusive

—in bold on the front.

Flipping to a fresh page he jotted down:

**_12-13/5/2012 - 49 30 55502899 Berlin Germany - Hostel_ **

Taking his seat, John began slowly working backwards through his phone log, listing every unknown call he received while weeding out the few local ones from telemarketers.

Out of all them—nine in total, only two appeared to be landlines, the rest were mobile numbers according his query results.

John had a hunch calling those would be useless but he did anyway, even trying the one he had redialed in November. Unsurprisingly it was still disconnected. As were the lot of them accept one he was able to isolate as a mobile carrier in Egypt.

He’d been shocked to hear a voice answer, male with a terse greeting. John stumbled with a greeting and received something frank and aggravated said back to him before the call ended.

“ _Cheers_.” He grumbled, adding to his list with a sharp underline.

Eventually John came to the first call back in October, and much to the doctor’s delight not only did the number belong to a business, but a business with a _website_. One for a very posh hotel in Paris France called the Maison Athénée.

He clicked through the site’s photo gallery, absently admiring the rich furnishings of the main areas of the hotel and various suites, wondering why anyone who could afford to stay _here_ would call _him_.

The thought of contacting the hotel crossed his mind but was soon ruled out. Firstly, if John’s German was bad, his French was abysmal. Secondly, there was no way they’d give him personal information about a guest just because someone “called” him, regardless of the circumstance.

Granted said call wasn’t made from a guest room. This was a _listed_ number, a front desk or a customer service phone. Unless it was an emergency, he imagined personal use of that line wasn’t allowed. Which narrowed down the potential individuals quite a bit.

Still, considering it happened _eight_ _months_ ago, even if he could track down the employee working the desk that day, the odds of them actually remembering the person who called him was piss poor.

So, short of hacking into their security cameras—something Sherlock could have probably done with his eyes closed—John had hit a wall.

Updating his findings, the doctor tossed his pen with a sharp _thack_ against the page, making a small indented mark. This was an utter waste of time, wasn’t it? Hours devoted to what…making a _list_?

With a sigh John leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the edge of the table before burying his face in his hands, trying to summon the energy to get up and make himself some tea. All this “investigating” had taken him well past lunch into the early edge of dusk and he was beginning to feel the pang of an ignored stomach.

And wasn’t that a lark? How many times had the doctor worked his own meager detective skills to figure out how long it had been since Sherlock ate something solid? Or had a drink of something besides tea. Now look at him. No better.

John couldn’t help but laugh into the flesh of his palms at the thought, drawing his hands down until his fingers were pressed against his lips. Nostalgia brilliant but painful flared beneath his ribs.

Instead of fighting it like he so often did, John let it radiate until the feeling began to burn out and fade, leaving tiny embers nestled in the pit of his gut. He sucked a long breath through his nose and let it out just as slow. Bit of a method Ella had taught him: inhale for the count of four, exhale for the same count. Concentrate on the breath itself, the feeling of it stretching out your lungs, of your lungs pushing it back out. Repeat.

It was really for curbing or lessening panic attacks, but John found it helpful at other times too. Mostly he used an abridged version: a blowy puff through puckered lips. Sherlock had dubbed it “ _Decompressing_ ”. As if John was a valve letting off steam. The metaphor wasn’t far off to be honest.

As the feeling passed, John shifted his attention back to the notepad, to his _stupid_ list. His eyes drifted slowly over each entry, over the numbers, over the locations, not exactly sure what he was hoping to see. Like something would magically appear to him now that hadn’t a few minutes ago.

**_1) 13/10/2011 – 33 1 40 55 57 70 Paris France – Hotel_ **

**_2) 2/11/2011 –39 347 8220091Italy – Disconnected_**

**_3) 9/12/2011 –34 781449015Spain – Disconnected_ **

**_4) 1/1/2012 – 90 533 4421308 Turkey - Disconnected_ **

**_5) 11/3/2012 – 20 12 4591 8874 Egypt - Wanker_ **

**_6) 20/4/2012 – 380 67 301 42 33Ukraine- Disconnected_ **

**_7-9) 12-13/5/2012 - 49 30 55502899 Berlin Germany - Hostel_ **

But all he saw were seven locations. Seven _random_ locations.

John furrowed his brow as his gaze swept back up to the first two items. Well, maybe not too random, France _was_ right next door Italy. And actually Spain was only a stone throw away from them too. _I wonder…_

He abruptly stood and headed for the bookshelf near the window, grimacing at the shear amount of texts Sherlock had amassed over his time there. Though there were a few of John’s in the mix, mostly medical journals the detective had squirreled away without asking the doctor if he could. _No surprise there_. If there was ever a man with no concept of private property, it was Sherlock Holmes.

Speaking of which…John was sure Sherlock had a world map tucked away here somewhere. The challenge laid in trying to make sense of the man’s cryptic organization. Or lack thereof. John had always suspected Sherlock didn’t know half the time where he put anyth—

“Ah ha!” He barked victoriously, spotting the edges of the map peeking out between a copy of Homer’s The Odyssey and Hardy’s The Return of the Native. He carefully unfolded the large map and glanced around the room for some surface big enough and clear enough to lay it flat.

No matter where John looked however there was a bewildering amount of clutter. It seemed in his attempt to piece together lost cases for the blog the sitting room had become a bit of a disaster area. Troublingly still, was the fact John hadn’t really taken notice to it until now.

Desperate for a spot, the doctor’s gaze halted on the wall above the couch and narrowed.

Four pushpins and a lot of smoothing later, John had the map spread over the black and grey floral wallpaper, admiring it for a second or two before scavenging for several more pins from a drawer in the kitchen.

As he marked his third location, driving a clear-headed pin in the general vicinity of Spain John realized he was missing a key component. Something to indicate the actual _progression_ of the calls. As it stood now, he would have a cluster of unrelated points, which was about as helpful as a list of them.

In the infamous evidence walls John had seen in the past, Sherlock would connect correlations with string—though whatever was left of that was undoubtedly buried in a box up in the loft and the only kind on hand was hemp twine for bundling newspapers and old magazines. Far too thick for his purposes.

No, this needed something finer…

“John! How are you dear?” Mrs. Hudson lit up as she opened her front door to find the doctor standing in the hall, shifting from one foot to the other. He gave her a warm albeit tight smile. Surprisingly the phrase ‘getting by’ didn’t even cross his mind.

“Good, good. Do you…happen to have any thread?” He asked, aiming for what he hoped came off as casual.

“Thread?” Martha repeated, absorbing the question for a half second. “Oh loads, what color were you looking for?”

It was such a trivial question to get thrown by, but John found he didn’t have an answer right away. What was a good color for behaving like a crazy person? Sherlock always used—

“Red.” John replied with a firm determination. As about as firm as one could be about sodding string. “As thick as you have.”

Martha nodded and motioned for him to come in from the hall. John did, only realizing as he went from the hard wood of the hallway to the stiff rug beyond Mrs. Hudson’s front door that in his haste, the only form of footwear he currently had on were socks. John instinctively dug his toes into the carpet and sighed loudly.

“Need any sewing needles?” The landlady called from a room situated just off her lounge.

“Uh…no! Just—just the thread!” John called back. As he stood there waiting, the heavenly smell of cooking beef, vegetables, and reduced wine wafted from the kitchen. John’s mouth began to water; his stomach bubbling in need to put whatever Mrs. H was cooking in there _now_.

A moment later she returned brandishing a paper bobbin of brightly dyed thread, denser than John had envisioned. “Here you are, it’s embroidery floss, hope that’s thick enough for you.”

“It’s perfect.” He remarked, thumbing over the string. “Thank you.”

“I’m making a roast tonight if you’re interested?” Mrs. Hudson inquired with a smile and then immediately followed with. I’ll bring some up later.” Scrunching her nose and patting John on the cheek like he’d just agreed.

Not that he was about to argue. Frankly at this point she could have offered him a dish sponge with a dash of red sauce on it and John would have gobbled it up and asked for seconds.

Giving her another thanks and a peck on the chin, John practically flew up the stairs back to the flat; filled with a vibrant sort of energy he hadn’t felt in weeks. _Months_.

Carefully he climbed onto the couch, straddling his legs to stay balanced on two cushions.

Pulling up the left most marker shoved into the dot representing Paris, John pinned one end of the string down then pulled it relatively taut over to the next one in Italy, then to the one in Spain and so forth.

When he came to the final point in Berlin, the doctor tacked the floss down and snipped the loose end with the small clippers of his Swiss army knife—a birthday gift from Mike who’d been rightfully shocked John hadn’t owned one already.

The scissors clicked snuggly back into their slot and John found himself looking at what was most definitely movement. A spiral in fact, uncurling outwards from France.

Right so…someone was traipsing around Europe and calling him.

Right?

“ _Shit_.” John whispered, folding his arms across his chest, uncertain whether to feel curious or concerned. At the moment he was sort of experiencing a little of both.

Sensibly…anyone who knew him, who was friends with him no matter how long ago, would have _talked_ to him correct?

Therefore, whoever this was either didn’t know him or…was trying to conceal their identity.

Now, ruling out Mycroft spying on him, what would someone gain from letting John ramble on without prompt? It wasn’t like he knew anything of importance at this point. And he suspected it wasn’t to hear about work and his ruddy cooking mishaps.

John felt his temper rise and his head beginning to throb, the lack of eating anything substantial besides toast that morning was finally taking its toll.

Tearing himself away from the map, the doctor shuffled dejectedly into the kitchen, throwing together a quick turkey and swiss sandwich and much needed cuppa.

None of this made sense. And the more John analyzed the pieces, the more the puzzle seemed to grow. Stretching out in frustrating angles.

He ate his sandwich solemnly, arse seated in a cleared out spot on the coffee table as he faced the map. _If someone wanted information_ (Though he couldn’t fathom what) _why not just outright threaten me?_

 _Why the long con_?

A sharp double knock pulled John from his vexing thoughts. He looked to his right to see Lestrade standing in the doorway, knuckles moving away from the frame and down into his pocket. Schooling his features, John cleared his throat, placing his half-eaten sandwich down and picking up his chilling tea. “Uh hey.” He spoke into his cup.

Greg stepped inside, surveying John curiously before the DI finally noticed the map tacked to the wall, littered with sticky notes with what looked like phone numbers and dates scrolled on them. “Am I…interrupting?”

John hummed a no, swallowing as he began to talk “ _No_ …what’s going on?”

The question was clearly an unexpected one as Greg balked a bit, huffing. “We’re doing our weekly, remember?” He replied.

The doctor’s face went slack and John quickly looked to his watch and not only saw the date but the time as well. He screwed it up with a tisk, cursing softly. When he looked back up to Lestrade it was with remorse. “I’m sorry mate, I…I forgot.”

“S’ok.” Greg shrugged, openly taking in the state of the sitting room before turning his attention back to the map, nodding his chin at it. “What’s all this then?”

 _Wish I knew myself._ John thought bitterly, struggling for an response before he realized he had the perfect one on tap. “Uh, old case I’m trying to write up. You know, for the blog.”

“Huh.” Lestrade huffed, the hint of guardedness still in his voice. “Anything I remember?” He inquired, making to remove his coat.

“No.” John raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “It was uh…a private one. Private client.” Eager to shift the focus before Greg asked any more questions he frankly didn’t want to answer, John stood up, gathering his plate and mug with him. “So, word from the front says there’s a roast incoming, interested?”

The tactic appeared to work as Lestrade chuckled, his previous apprehension slipping into a smirk as he admitted. “I _had_ hoped that smell was coming from up here.”

John _pffted_ at the idea and took his dishes to the kitchen.

 

-... .. --.

Christ he needed a smoke.

Stepping off the stoop of 221B and onto the pavement later that evening, belly stuffed full of the best home cooking he had in ages, Greg rifled through his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter. He’d just skimmed his fingers over the rectangular shape of the pack when from another pocket, his phone began bleeping loudly.

“ _Come on_.” Lestrade groaned, abandoning his search for his lighter and producing his mobile instead. Assuming it was the Yard at this hour, his irritation mounted as he saw that it was someone else entirely.

Glancing around, it took the DI a minute to spot the CCTV camera pointed at him across the street, nearly hidden in the shadows of a building where it was attached to the corner of another.

Rolling his eyes he answered the call. “I hate when you do that.” He spoke directly to the camera.

“Do what?” Came the haughty voice of Mycroft Holmes on the other end. Sounding as if he already knew the answer by his tone and was all the more contented for it. Lestrade quite hated that too.

“I’m not in the mood.” Greg warned, giving the camera one last dirty look before he continued his journey to his car. It was parked some ways down; far enough he could just make out the silver hood gleaming under a streetlamp.

There was soft _ah_ in his ear _._ “How is our doctor fairing?”

“Not good. Not that you’d know.” He sniped, momentarily pleased with himself. “Well without these little _check-ins_ that is.”

There was exasperated sigh on the other end. “Gregory, you know he wants nothing to do with me.”

“And why _is_ that?” Greg prodded rhetorically, knowing fully well he’d never get a straight answer from him. He couldn’t even get one from John.

He never told Lestrade exactly what Mycroft’s involvement was with Sherlock’s downfall, but it was enough for the doctor to contemplate committing homicide. Something to the effect of: if John ever came face to face with Mycroft again, Greg had better be prepared to arrest him.

“I’m worried about him is all. I mean it’s almost—” Greg’s words died on his lips as he came to a halt. Of course Mycroft knew what _date_ was coming up. The line remained silent as the DI dipped his head, breathing loudly from his nose. “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.” Mycroft replied with ever the measured calm and said nothing more.

Greg cleared his throat and walked on. “I think it’s hitting him harder than John’s letting on.” He urged quietly, keeping his voice lowered as if there was some way John was going hear him all the way down the block. “We were supposed to have dinner tonight right, like usual, and he’s completely forgotten. Said he was wrapped up in trying to write some old case.”

“A coping mechanism.” Mycroft offered.

“Yeah.” Lestrade muttered, fishing his keys out as the DI came up to his car. “I’ve seen John’s methods of coping Mycroft. This is not one of them.”

Opening his car door, Greg slid into the driver’s seat. “The flat was mess; he was on edge _all_ night. When I first came to see him he was sitting in the lounge staring at a plotted out map on the wall.”

“What locations were marked?” Mycroft asked coolly. Lestrade could almost picture the smallest quirk of a brow.

“I don’t know. Mostly round Europe I think. Why?”

There was a relatively pregnant pause on the other end, enough to catch Greg’s attention.

“One of mine.” Mycroft replied loftily, almost bored. “Quite an intensive case.”

“Yeah well he seemed pretty _intensive_ about it. Look, I’ve seen this type of behavior before, just recently—”

“If you’re referring to your Mr. Anderson, I’m well aware of his little _club_.” Mycroft interrupted; his distaste palpable before his tone swiftly leveled. “However I highly doubt John is suffering from the same delusions.”

Greg was about to argue, not to mention ask just how exactly the man knew about Philip’s new obsession but Mycroft rolled on, sounding very much finished with the subject.

“Despite your insinuations I _do_ understand your concern Gregory. So might I suggest we keep a closer eye on him?” The other man soothed. “In our own ways.”

The DI supposed that that was about as much of a ‘Sure I’ll help’ as he was going to get. He leveled a sigh, reaching for his keys dangling from the ignition, the car sputtering to life with a twist. “Fine.”

 

-... .-. --- - .... . .-.

 

Bidding Lestrade goodbye, Mycroft rang off and sat back at his desk, deep in the heart of the Diogenes Club.

His eyes narrowed as he stared out into the room, one elbow resting on the arm of his chair, the edge of a thumbnail slowly etching back and forth over the soft pad of his index finger.

Suddenly his thumb stopped and Mycroft’s ears perked up as his jaw tightened.

Reaching over, he pressed a button on his desk phone; the soft beep followed a moment later by the door to his office opening.

“Shall I ready a car for the night sir?” Asked his assistant, coming in and closing the door behind him.

“Yes.” Mycroft replied, but raised a hand for him to wait. “But before you do…”

He tore off a slip of paper from a nearby scratch pad. Picking up a fountain pen he gave it a firm couple of shakes before writing a series of numbers on the slip. With a light blow to the paper’s surface, he handed it off to the assistant between two fingers.

“I’d like a list of all incoming international calls to that number. Send them to me when you have them.”

His assistant nodded and took the slip.

 

.. ...

 

John had never hated a month as much as he hated June.

It was a warmer month, a brighter month, summer attempting to get into the swing of things after a bitter spring.

It certainly didn’t help that one of major news stations ran a piece on Sherlock and that it was the anniversary of his death.

It certainly didn’t help that the piece also featured John. Briefly, but it was enough that he started getting phone calls again.

And not of the anonymous kind. Friends and media alike. People were suddenly reminded he existed and with the intrusive questions also came the backlash. Sherlock was still a villain after all. And they told him so. Over and over again.

John had subsequently turned off the comments on his blog and was seriously contemplating shutting off his phone for the foreseeable future. Not that mattered; they were calling the landline too.

Truth be told he hadn’t received a mysterious call since the last one in May. Not that that mattered either since John had run his investigation into the ground, coming up with no new leads or ideas.

Keen to stay away from Baker Street, he’d been pouring himself into work again and then pouring himself into a glass tumbler at night. Anything to make the days pass quickly. To get as far away from June as he could.

What little social interactions John engaged in had deteriorated. He told Mrs. Hudson he was too busy and Greg he was too tired. And he was…he was exhausted. But not enough to sleep a full night. He had nightmares more often these past weeks, his brain vying with the media to remind him of how horrible last June was and how horrible this one would be too.

_Fuck June._

It wasn’t until nearly the last week that Sarah called him into her office and John prepared himself to get another _talk_ about his overworking.

Sarah had given him a sheepish smile, which was not at all what John was expecting to precede a chewing out. “I…just got off the phone with a Dr. Altamont and there’s going to be a bit of a medical convention up near Durham.” She began. “ _And_ they were hoping you might go and give a talk or two.”

John blinked. “Me.”

Sarah laughed, gathering a few papers on her desk. “Yeah they’re apparently desperate for doctors from the London area and I happened to mention your experience as a trauma surgeon in the army and…” She shrugged. “They want you there this weekend. Said they’d love for you to do a panel on medicine out in the field or whatever you wanted to discuss really.”

He stared at her, eyebrows knitted and mouth lightly agape like Sarah had just told him the clinic was going to be converted into a shopping center and they were all expected to remain employed there.

A sound came from him, the start of a counter argument that was more of a _chuff_ of air. Squeezing his eyes shut, John shook his head. “I’m not—really—”

“Come on John, it’s a weekend in the _country_. It’ll be nice. Like a little holiday.”

“All expenses paid.” Sarah added brightly.

John shoved his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips.

Friday morning at 8am sharp, he arrived at the King’s Cross Station and sure enough there was a round trip ticket waiting for John under his name.

As the doctor took his seat in an empty compartment, he settled back and tried to relax. The train ride from London to Durham was a straight shot, about three hours one way.

He’d have all today to prepare and then Saturday would be spent at the convention center, one panel in the morning round 10am with other doctors and a personal lecture in the afternoon at 2pm. Both ending in a short Q&A. John had spent the rest of that week going over his discussion topics, ranging from identifying foreign illnesses to providing aid out in the middle of nowhere with limited supplies.

He wasn’t too sure what he would do in the interim. The idea of wandering around a convention center alone sounded terrible and John wasn’t planning on doing any networking. He supposed he could sit in on a few talks himself. Maybe wander around town. He’d be leaving early Sunday morning.

Despite his earlier qualms John was rather glad he agreed to go. It felt good to leave London behind for a while, even if it was just a weekend. Away from the noise and the people, from everywhere he looked reminding him of…

 _No. Not this weekend._ He could go three bloody days without thinking about Sherlock.

Shifting in his seat John heard the last whistle, the boarding shouts of conductors. Minutes later the train hissed and started to slowly inch forward.

He watched as the buildings and commotion of the city flashed by quicker and quicker. John closed his eyes after a while, attempting to get an hour in, maybe two if he were lucky.

A ten minute cab ride from the station in Durham found John dropped off at a quaint B&B on the outskirts of town and in walking distance of several shops. The inn itself was two floors with a pub and restaurant attached on the lower level with a separate entrance. John slipped through the thick wooden archway of a doorframe in front of him and glanced about.

The place was scarcely busy considering the season. Then again in the email he got earlier that week with the details of his trip and accommodations had mentioned needing to put him farther out from town due to the short notice of it all.

It would be nearly a thirty minute drive to the convention center tomorrow, but John honestly didn’t mind. The remoteness was a welcome change in atmosphere.

From where he stood John could see the front desk, to his right a large empty hearth surrounded by several leather couches and chairs, farther right still sat the pub through another massive archway.

Lugging his suitcase to the desk John was greeted by a very pleasant young woman and a very disinterested young man leaning up against a door marked ‘Employees Only’, puttering on his mobile phone.

“Good afternoon sir how can I help you today?” She asked.

John placed his bag down and gripped his left hand several times, giving her a wide grin. “I’m checking in, should be a reservation under John Watson.”

“John Watson.” The girl repeated, dragging a massive ledger towards her and cracking it open with a heavy thump.

“Bit 19th century.” He remarked lightly, pointing to the ledger as she flipped to today’s date via a thick ribbon. “Bet you’d rather be using something a little less antiquated.”

She gave him a wincing smile followed by the small gush of a forced laugh through her nostrils. Meanwhile the bloke glued to his phone’s screen snickered.

John shifted his hands behind his back, resisting the urge to bury himself in the floor as she turned her attention to the page, running her finger downwards. _That was good John, real good._ God he was rusty. Not that he should be flirting with a girl half his age but still.

“Ah here you are Dr. Watson. Room 42. Upstairs and to the left” The young woman announced, turning back to a large wall of keys she plucked the corresponding one off and slid it across the countertop to him. “Do you need someone to take up your bag sir?” She was obviously referring to her desk mate and quite honestly neither he nor John wanted him handling his bag.

“Uh no. No I can manage. Thanks.” He gave her a nod and took his key, looking to get away from there as fast as possible.

The young man behind the desk looked up, watching the doctor head for the staircase and disappearing up it, while his fellow employee made a note in the ledger before closing the heavy book. “I’m going on my fifteen Lou.” She proclaimed; all friendliness dropping as she dug a cigarette out of her pocket.

Lou grunted in reply, barely giving her a glance as she headed out. A moment later he inverted his phone, sliding out a keyboard and began typing.

 

.-- .- - -.-. .... .. -. --.

 

Sitting in his library at his home, Mycroft looked up as a folded newspaper was produced from under the arm of an assistant and handed to him. He took it with a tight smile and a short thank you, leaning back in his chair and glancing over the front page.

His mobile phone resting beside a cup of tea, gently steaming in the early morning sun chimed once.

Drawing his eyes away from the newspaper he swiped over the screen, an eyebrow raising as he quickly read over the new text message in his inbox. With a sniff he picked the phone up and navigated to the number pad, tapping three numbers and activating his speed dial.

With the phone to his ear, Mycroft took a sip of tea, swallowing just as the other line answered.

“He’s arrived.” He remarked coolly, placing his cup back in its saucer.

Mycroft raised his chin, eyes shifting to the phone in his hand. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

The call disconnected abruptly and the elder Holmes placed his mobile down with a heavy sigh, looking forward for a moment in contemplation before he flicked the paper flat in his lap and began to read.

 

-.-- --- ..- .-.-.-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added help text on the German dialog (which I hope is mostly correct as I used google translator). But if you hover over some of the words you should see the translation pop up. Which is not helpful to John but it's awesome for you. :D
> 
> Also, have you noticed those random looking separators between story sections each chapter?  
> I’ll just leave this here: http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was tough to write, and hopefully you’ll see why. I’m not sure I’m exactly in love with it. But it’s soup for now.
> 
> I also had a lot of fun researching Durham. I’d like to go there one day me thinks. Seems like a wonderful place. If you haven't looked it up, dooooo it.

The reserved room was far nicer than John expected. Though…the pale creamy colored wallpaper with dainty pink and yellow flowers and delicate swirling vines left a little to be desired. Luckily it only ran halfway down the wall where it met with a simple chestnut-stained wood paneling, the same color as the floorboards.

The room itself was of the average size and rectangular in shape, with minimal furnishings allowing it to feel cozy rather than cramped. To his immediate left was a long dumpy chest of drawers with a folded map of the area and several sightseeing pamphlets fanned out on its surface. Along the adjoining wall sat a modest brick-lined fireplace, a few piled logs waiting in a squat holder. Though they wouldn’t be seeing a flame tonight.

Bookending the fireplace were two doors, one John suspected was the closet while the other looked as if there was a lock on the back of the knob. Perhaps a connecting doorway to the room next to his.

At the far wall sat the room’s only window, the shade up and curtains drawn to let the early afternoon light spill onto the floor.

The room’s most striking feature however was its king sized bed, situated against the right most wall. The gargantuan thing was made even bulkier looking by several pillows stacked at the head and draped with a fluffy duvet.

John pulled the key still dangling from the door and came further in, tossing his coat over the black wrought iron footboard. He was beginning to think this was a double occupancy room considering the sheer massive size of the bed and the pair of chairs sitting in front of the fireplace, a tiny table in between.

He gave an impressive _humph_ and placed his duffle on the bed—the bag sinking into the down, and made his way around to an open doorway just off to the left of it. As anticipated there was a quaint bathroom complete with tub and shower.

Like any veteran hotel-stayer John went about investigating the rest of the room, peering into drawers, picking up the phone sitting on a side table next to the bed and listening for the dial tone—which there was, opening the singular drawer of said side table to find a bible, which to him instantly called to mind the song _Rocky Raccoon_.

In the bath he tested all the taps, let the shower water rain down on his hand before flicking it off and pulling the linen curtain closed, then proceeded to flush the toilet. _A touch weak._

Crossing the room, the doctor opened the left door to find a more than adequate closet where he hung up his coat. He then tried the other door and carefully turned the knob, peaking through the crack to find darkness on the other side. Opening it fully he discovered a small broom closet with another similar door at the other end. Resting against one wall was an ironing board with an iron hanging next to it; several shelves lined either side containing extra pillows, blankets, and sheets. John wondered briefly if he had a neighbor. If there was one, he couldn’t hear them from where he was standing.

Abandoning the thought, the doctor went to settle in.

He had just finished unpacking his bag, dragging the husk of a duffel and tucking it away in the dark maw under the boxspring. As John stood, he eyed the perfectly made, seemingly endless expanse of bed-surface, a terrible urge overtaking him.  It _was_ the only thing left he hadn’t tested…With a grunt, John jettisoned himself backwards onto it, landing with a soft _wuff_ as the duvet puffed round him like a cloud. He closed his eyes, letting out a resoundingly pleased sigh. _Not bad at all._

Admittedly, it was a tad romantic for just attending a convention. Felt a bit wasteful on just him.

The doctor debated lying there much longer, the tease of dozing off pulling at his edges. It was tempting to the sleep starved, but if he wanted to attempt a proper rest tonight for tomorrow, napping now would do him no favors.

Hauling himself up, John checked his watch (1:22pm) and frowned. He certainly had time to kill. He poked around the guides left for him by the staff, mostly for castles and museums and decided to head to the main of Durham after catching lunch in the inn’s restaurant.

By the time evening rolled round he had his fill of local shops and touring.

Nonetheless the city itself was lovely from its tall weathered stone buildings squeezed side by side and its winding streets paved in brick and cobblestone. John ended up spending several hours of his day wandering around Durham Castle and Cathedral before taking in the University, still bustling with students as they neared the end of their Easter Term.

Despite being around so many people, residents and tourists alike, John couldn’t help but feel a lingering loneliness. He _was_ essentially on holiday with himself after all. Generally if he had been outside London, it was on a case. And even then certain individuals—whom John promised himself he wasn’t going to think about this weekend, but there he bloody goes again—tended to ignore his existence when they were particularly focused on the problem at hand.

Not that John required constant interaction. He understood that a particular someone— _oh fuck it._

He understood that _Sherlock_ sometimes needed to lock himself away in his own head during cases. Quite frankly depending on the gravity of the case and therefore Sherlock’s attitude, sometimes John savored those stretches when the detective would check out for a few hours.

Regardless, Sherlock was still _there_ in some capacity.

John supposed it was normal for this to feel abnormal. Could almost hear Ella telling him the same thing. It was his first time away on his own when returning meant still _being_ on his own. He never thought he’d miss the sense of relief to come home to find the building still standing. There was always a gamble when he'd left Sherlock on his own for any extended period of time. Fires, explosions, hazardous material spills, police raids, relapses and the occasional assassin where the things that use to run through John's head while others simply worried about whether they locked up or unplugged some appliance.

The doctor sighed as he wound a few strands of spaghetti in his Pasta Bolognese gradually around his fork. He had stopped for dinner at Bella Italia, a small Italian restaurant a short walk from Durham Castle. It had a charming homey atmosphere and John’s mouth had started to water as soon as he came within sniffing range on the street. He tried very hard to ignore how it reminded him of Angelo’s.

Just then his waitress resurfaced, walking towards his table. “How is everything sir?”

About to reply, John’s eyes caught a figure sitting at a table some several meters away beyond the waitress’s arm, their back mostly to him: tall thin frame in a dark tailored suit, a head of dusky manicured curls, elbows resting on the table, pale hands with fingers laced together against their mouth. He felt his stomach rocket into his throat, breath catching as the response died on his lips. John blinked hard, blinked again, and in an instant his eyes registered a different figure. A lanky man with lighter brown hair, cropped shorter in a charcoal suit began speaking animatedly to the woman he was dining with. Her laughter cutting across the restaurant.

“Sir?” The waitress asked again, turning to look where John was staring before looking back at him. She watched as he reached, hand minutely trembling for his water glass and downed the half that remained in one gulp.

“Uh…yes, yes everything’s great, thanks.” He answered absently after a breathy gasp, quickly shifting his gaze up to her. John gave her a polite smile. “Maybe some more water.”

“Sure.” She nodded and swept away.

John ended up leaving the rest of his dinner there and untouched, partially because he had no place to store it in his hotel room and partially because his hunger had quickly flagged.

He convinced himself it was probably best to head back anyway, considering the day he had waiting for him tomorrow. Though during his ride to the inn, John couldn’t shake the sense of alarm. It coiled slowly and uncomfortably in his gut, the crawling sensation under his skin returning with a vengeance.

It made him angry. He was passed this wasn’t he? This irrational unease at nothing. So what, so he imagined Sherlock. He _had_ been thinking of him, He _was_ tried, and that other man’s appearance being similar triggered a hallucination. That was all. _Get a grip._

The doctor shut his eyes tightly, letting his head fall against the cool surface of the window.

John breathed in. _1…2…3…4_

John exhaled. _1…2…3…4_

He did this up until the cab dropped him off, somewhat more relaxed for it by the time he crept into his room and shut the door firmly behind him.

John quickly readied himself for bed, set his alarm, stripped down to a thin white cotton vest and his boxers then hit the loo. He endeavored to let the extra hot spray of the shower wash the tension from him, cascading down his body in streams, imagining it swirling away down the drain. It left him feeling hollow but stilled.

He supposed that was better.

Opening his toiletry case John plucked out his toothbrush, his sights catching the hint of orange tucked away inside. He dug out a prescription bottle, tipping it gently so the pills inside rattled softly against each other.

He’d finally given in and confided in Sarah about his insomnia, which was probably one of the reasons she pushed him into going this weekend. She also had prescribed him a sleep aid for immediate use.

The plan was to start him out with a Zolpidem in an extended release form, something that would make him fall asleep quickly and keep him asleep throughout the night. He told her about his previous experiences with sleeping pills and they both agreed trying this form might be better. Eventually they would switch John over to a Ramelteon, which worked differently by targeting the circadian cycle naturally rather than forcing it with an artificial chemical. That one he could use long-term if needed.

He promised to keep her informed about any side effects but dodged her suggestion about maybe going back to therapy.

Palming the cap off, John deliberated taking his first dose tonight, moving the bottle around and shifting the pills. On the plus side he hadn’t drank wine with his dinner, weary of any semblance of a hangover tomorrow. On the downside it probably wasn’t the brightest idea to test a new drug while: A.) Being away from home and B.) Having obligations the next day.

Though the idea of a quick nod off and full night’s sleep was exceedingly tempting, the chance he’d be a zombie tomorrow morning wasn’t. So, choosing responsibility over need, John recapped the bottle and put it away into his kit. Vowing to start the medication as soon as he got back.

He went about the remainder of his evening routine before padding into the main room and drawing back the ridiculously bloated duvet and sliding into what turned out to be an equally ridiculously comfortable bed.

Though it was cooler that night then it had been all day, he opted to fold the massive covering down to the footboard and use the flat sheet underneath as a blanket instead.

Reaching up he tugged the bedside light off, checked his phone one more time to make sure he set the alarm for tomorrow and settled in on his back. His surroundings were near silent both within the building and outside on the street. Only the faint sound of curtains lightly billowing, John having cracked the window open to let in a breeze smelling of fresh summer air.

He watched the curtains gently dancing against the windowpane, finding them rather hypnotic. Combined with the active day walking around Durham, John’s focus on the curling fabric began to fuzz then fade altogether.

 

... - .- .-. .. -. --. / .. -. - --- / - .... . / ..-. .- -.-. .

 

_He tastes acrid air. That’s new. And his feet sink into the tarmac of the street. That’s new too._

_He stares at the horribly recognizable building, looming tall on the pavement; the world around him has stopped. The people around him at a standstill. Waiting. Just like he is. Waiting for the inevitable._

_Like the sun rising in the morning or Tuesday following Monday. This moment is inescapable as it is unpreventable. Yet he tries._

_He tries every time._

_Suddenly his mobile rings in his pocket and by the logic of this universe he knows it’s Sherlock calling him. He’s already speaking before the call connects, begging. Not this time. Not **this** time. Please god he can do it different now. He knows better. He sees the **mistakes** and he can fix them._

_The other line is silent and he gazes up to the uncomfortably bright afternoon sky. A smothering blanket of cloud, motionless, without color or warmth even though the sun lay just behind it. He sees a small dark figure standing at the edge of the roof one arm raised, crooked at the elbow, a hand to an ear._

_This silence he speaks to is so familiar it makes his head hurt. Like it’s splitting in two. He must focus. Must act. There’s so little time and so much to go wrong._

_Sometimes he can’t speak like his tongue is some leaded betraying thing. Sometimes he can’t move like his legs refuse to adhere to the signals of his brain. Sometimes he gets to the front of Saint Bart’s too late because he is too stupid to figure out he fell for a ploy. Sometimes he’s halfway up the stairs but they grow and grow and stack and he’s slow and clumsy and USELESS._

_“Sherlock.” He breathes, takes a step forward and his foot sinks again. He looks down to find not blacktop but sand, the ground is rife with it, rolling and shifting constantly. The air is so dry it burns his nostrils to breathe it in. But that’s painfully familiar too.Two worlds he's lived in coalescing. Competing for dominance. He hears shouts in the distance. Gunfire.  
_

_“John?” The reply is faint over the pop of rifles, almost a whisper coming through the receiver. Sherlock’s form still frozen like others gathered below. “John?”_

_“Sherlock are you…” He swallows thickly trying to form the idea, his attention segmenting as the shouting grows. “Is it you—”_

_"Are you calling me?"_

_Just then the world lurches into movement and he watches as Sherlock spreads his arms and tips forward._

_And he runs, he runs but the sand…the sand won’t let him move. It saps at his muscles as he sinks and rises and sinks again trying to cover any ground. And Sherlock is falling, like a beautiful black shadow._

_A sound wretches from his throat but comes out as nothing but a pathetic squeak as his next step drives his foot down into the sand up to his knee, the next consumes his other leg up to his thigh and he’s falling forward too, hands submerging up to his wrists into shifting grains. It grips and presses and holds fast and he fights, he fights and strains to free himself and looks up just as Sherlock hits the ground behind a wall of people._

_And he can’t see. He can’t see him. And a fist of a wail lodges in his throat and chokes him._

_“John.” A faint hum vibrates in his ear, nearly drowned out by his heart, thundering like the explosions of grenades as it tries to break loose from his chest._

_“John.” Louder now, closer._

_“ **Wake up**.”_

John bursts from sleep like he’s breaching the surface of some fathomless body of water, gasping and attempting to flail but finds his limbs are ensnared. There’s a great weight on him, all over him, holding him down and he rallies against it. Fights it as he tries to process what he’s seeing beyond the strobing of his vision. Black upon churning black.

“John.” The weight rumbles, soft but urgent, so close he can feel heat on his face. “John you’re having a nightmare.” It hisses and John feels panic slicing its way from his stomach to the base of his skull because darkness doesn’t speak and he needs to get up, get it off of him, get away.

The pressure clamping around his flexing wrists tightens as he struggles anew, gaining use of his legs only momentarily and squirming for purchase before they’re too immobilized, locked between two thick solid masses.

As the shapeless begins to take shape, as John’s sleep-muddled brain realizes there’s not something on him but _someone,_ a strength born of sheer self-preservation overtakes him and he surges, collides with the other body weighing him down and thrusts them both up and backwards, driving them over the side of the bed.

Suddenly they’re both falling the short distance to the floor, landing with a hard thump that makes the side table next to the bed shutter. Upon impact the body below him lets out a wheeze as the air is knocked from their lungs.

Taking advantage of the disarray, the sheet tangling them together in a chaotic knot, John swiftly reseats himself on a pair of upper thighs, pinning his attacker’s lower body to the ground. Blindly he makes a grab for the front of a shirt, fingers balling tightly into the course material and pressing his fist down firmly on a heaving chest, drawing his other arm back to throw a—

“For god sakes John!” Comes a shout, breathless but no less booming.

The voice, the timber, frightening in its familiarity practically vibrates through John’s pistoning thoughts of survival, makes him halt his counterattack despite instinct telling him to persist.

For a timeless moment they simply exist, both unmoving, both panting heavily into the black.

Cautiously, John leaned to his right, ready to react if warranted. However the other man kept perfectly still as the doctor reached over for the lamp on the side table, fumbling for the thin strand of the pull chain.

With a soft click, light erupted into the room and John narrowed bleary eyes against it, temporarily blinded when he turned his sights downwards and froze.

For a fleeting second, John assumed that he must still be dreaming as something cold and sharp tore up him. Because the man he saw restrained beneath him, grimacing as well against the sudden brightness shouldn’t be there.

Couldn’t be _there_.

Couldn’t _be_ at all.

“Hello John.” Sherlock winced, trying to shift himself upwards as John was still compressing heavily on his torso and making it difficult to take a satisfying breath. The effort proved futile though from his position, sandwiched between the floor and the doctor’s body.

“You’re not hallucinating.” He refuted with a wry smoothness; seemingly reading John’s thought process from the range of expressions twisting over the man’s face. Bewilderment to confusion to realization, then shifting into something uninterpretable but raw that made the detective’s amusement falter. He averted his gaze to John’s constricted bicep, watching the minute flexing in the curve of muscle.

“Right so…” Sherlock cleared his throat, relaxing in an attempt to get some iota of comfort. “Short version, not dead.”

“ _I saw you_.” John breathed, the edge of each word rough, like he was either fighting to keep them in or to push them out. " _I saw you_ _die."_

“Yes about that, um…well it was all rather complex actually.” Sherlock replied with an awkward little laugh and a crooked smile that died away upon seeing the subtle clenching to John’s jaw. Realizing a little too late that he recognized _that_ look, the outwardly unassuming composure John adopted when he was on the cusp of being really dangerous.

He began again gingerly, like addressing a cornered beast. “Now John. I know you might be angry but right now I need you to—”

The strike was swift. Precise. The second knuckle of John’s right fist impacting the corner of Sherlock’s mouth into his teeth, sending the detective’s head rolling to the left along with it.

“— _listen_.” Sherlock gritted, his body tensing as he felt John move suddenly, preparing for another punch.

Instead to his surprise, the doctor curled forward until his forehead gently pressed into the end of Sherlock’s sternum, John’s other hand coming up to squeeze at his shirt.

Sherlock unclenched his eyes to find a crown of askew blond hair mere centimeters away. Near enough to smell the faint scent of John’s shampoo and the heady saltiness of sleep. He could feel John gently quaking, but noted how motionless his back was, no rise or fall of—

Slowly, the detective lifted an arm from where it had been lying beside his head and brought it to hover just over John’s shoulder. His long fingers flexed and curled, hesitating to come any closer.

“John…” He ordered gently. “Breathe.”

“ _How_ …how _could_ you?” The first word whooshed hotly against the detective’s abdomen, the rest seethed and a fresh shiver ran through John.

Sherlock dropped his hand into the sheet between them. “Not easily.” He replied solemnly. “But if you’ll just let me explain—”

John let out a gush of a laugh, bitter and simmering. “That’s always been your favorite part, hasn’t it?” The doctor lifted his head, glaring at him beyond the wall of his balled fists, fighting the urge to hit Sherlock again.

“The big reveal yeah—pulling back the curtain, prove how bloody _stupid_ we all are.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock exclaimed, his expression somewhere between stunned and affronted. “Don’t be absurd, I never intended—”

“For what?!” John spat back, whatever he’d been restraining coming loose, air whistling through his flared nostrils as the words poured from him. “Didn’t intend _what_ exactly _hmmm_? For me to grieve? To care. To care enough that watching my best friend die _in front_ _of_ _me_ would affect me. That I’d drive myself fucking mad that I hadn’t seen you were suicidal until it was too late. That I—.”

John took in a wavering breath, his swallow deafening to his ears. “We fought that day. Remember?”

“I called you a machine and I _fucking_ _left_ and then you killed yourself.”

In that moment John saw through his shimmering vision, the reverence of realization flash across Sherlock’s face. It was a look he’d previously enjoyed quite a bit. The detective’s brow unknitted, his lips parting—which usually preluded some dramatic revelation.

Sherlock only blinked once slowly and closed his mouth, casting his eyes away from the doctor’s burning gaze to somewhere lower along his features.

“So don’t you dare.” John ground out, barely composed, releasing one hand so he could point a trembling finger at the detective. “Don’t you dare tell me _none_ of that occurred to you when you concocted whatever grand fucking scheme you thought made this even _remotely_ acceptable.”

Sherlock’s gaze traveled downward, following one of the taunt tendons of John’s throat, lingering around his collarbone where it peeked from the collar of his rumpled t-shirt before sweeping out somewhere beyond his shoulder. He remained mute, a familiar stony defiance that told John he’d have better luck growing a second head then getting a response out of him.

John nodded stiffly and made to climb off.

“What’s worse John…” The detective rumbled suddenly, bright eyes flicking up to meet his with a scrutiny piercing enough that John felt it raise the hairs on the back of his neck. “…that I didn’t know. Or that I _did_ and acted anyway?”

They stared at each other for what felt like an age, a silent battle ending when John felt a weariness descend over him so dense he wavered. The pitiful rest he got, the adrenalin coursing through his system now fading and replaced by utter exhaustion.

With a heavy sigh the doctor seceded, sluggishly extracting himself and making it as far as the foot of the bed before leaning heavily against it, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to quell the heat building in them.

Both men remained there quietly: Sherlock licking over his bottom lip, no doubt tasting the blooming tang of copper well before the sharp sting where his tongue met split flesh; John letting out another labored breath as his head fell backwards against the corner of the mattress, hands landing limply in his lap, having his own revelation. Shades of his nightmare seeping in.

“It was you calling me…wasn’t it?” John asked after a long spell, addressing the ceiling. He wondered briefly what time it was, guessing somewhere in the early hours of night as it was still dark outside the window. Still silent. Still asleep like John wished he was.

“Yes.” The detective replied, rolling over onto his side with a pained grunt. Sherlock pulled the sheet off himself and tossed it haphazardly away from him. “But I wasn’t the only one.”

About to demand why in all that time Sherlock hadn’t said a _damn thing_ , the doctor’s brain caught up. John regarded him then, leveling Sherlock with a befuddled look and the corner of the detective’s mouth twitched upwards briefly.

Easing up off the ground, Sherlock hauled himself backwards until his back hit the wood paneling. As he raised his knees slowly he grimaced, like the simple movement troubled him. The reaction caught John’s eye and his confusion was momentarily suppressed as he took in Sherlock’s appearance for the first time.

Gone was the trademarked tailored suit, replaced by muted navy cargo pants and a dark grey thermal shirt—though he was practically swimming in both of them. On his feet were what looked to John like a pair of military-issued combat boots.

Sherlock looked leaner, but his frame seemed broader. Clear muscle definition in his arms where the fabric draped over bicep, shoulder, and forearm as he rested them on his knees. He was tanner then John had ever seen him—though on the fair side of honey—and even with the low light thrown from the lamp, Sherlock’s hair, longer than usual—nearly down to the lobes of his ears and tussled from their brawl appeared mildly sun-bleached.

Overall however he looked… _tired_. About as drained as John felt. And despite himself, John wondered if Sherlock was eating by the sunken nature of his cheeks. Clenching a fist, John tried to quell the budding concern and turned away, staring forward at the curtains across the way, wafting gently.

He could just make out Sherlock still observing him from the corner of his eye, probably seeing all sorts of things John was too bloody tired to care about hiding. If Sherlock had deducted anything he kept it to himself, instead querying: “You received nine calls to your mobile phone, correct? All from foreign numbers.”

John simply nodded.

“I only called you five times.”

As the doctor’s attention snapped back to him, looking decidedly disturbed, Sherlock began recounting on his fingers. “The first in October. The second in January, and the last three in May.” As he let his hand drop so did John’s stomach.

“But who the hell else is calling me? I don’t know _anything_ apparently _.”_ John argued.

The detective gave a half shrug, leaning his head back against the wall, his eyelids sagging. “I’ve had Mycroft sweep Baker Street for bugs while you were away, but I suspect someone’s using you to get to me.” Sherlock replied, sounding bluntly put out about it. “Predict my next move perhaps. Especially with what I've been—” He cut himself off, glancing down to where his hands dangled between his legs, his one thumb sweeping in an arc.

“Up to.” Sherlock finished vaguely, peering back up at John through dark lashes. He had a sudden reluctance about him, seeming to want to say more. But much to John’s growing frustration he turned his gaze away again, regarding the room beyond the bed.

John cupped a palm to his forehead, squeezing at his temples. "This is unbelievable—no. No. Actually this is _exactly_ amount of bullshit I expect from the two of you." He dropped his hand to glare at Sherlock. There was a minute clench in the man's jaw, the muscles flexing then releasing. 

"Whomever's contacting you can't be made aware that you know it isn't me. Which means your line will be monitored.” Sherlock said after a moment, appearing none too pleased with the development himself either.

“Not my idea I'm afraid.” He added softly, letting one leg slide straight in front of him, slumping further down on the paneling.

“ _Ta_.” John groused, nearly laughing. He couldn’t ignore the massive irony of not being trusted with the knowledge of Sherlock being still alive, but now was expected to serve as a channel for their idiotic espionage.

“I assume I don’t have a choice do I?” He asked, clearly knowing the answer already. After a near minute of no reply he expected to find Sherlock silent but pensively still regarding the wall. But when John looked over the detective’s head had drooped to one side, his eyes closed. His breathing shallow and even.

“You’ve gotta be fucking—” John exclaimed under his breath, his features contorting, flabbergasted. _Absolutely ridiculous—of course. OF COURSE he bloody falls asleep after all that!_

Gearing to wake Sherlock up and kick him the hell out, John clamored to his feet and loomed over the passed out detective. Inching out a toe, the doctor nudged him in the leg, waited a half-minute then nudged him again a little sharper the second time.

Sherlock remained sound asleep, his breath beginning to softly _plupp_ from between his protruding lips where his cheek had smooshed into his shoulder.

Clenching his fists at his side, John slowly shook his head. _No. No I won’t. I’m not going to do that. He doesn’t deserve it. No. No, no, no, no, NO._

At the awareness of hands jamming into his armpits, Sherlock snorted awake and made a clumsy grab for John’s biceps as he felt himself being hauled up. He scrambled for purchase; long legs buckling under him like that of a new born calf, almost taking them both down as John tried to regain his balance.

Grunting against the detective’s near dead weight, John wrapped an arm around his waist and ducked under Sherlock’s arm, baring it on his shoulders as he manhandled him towards the bed. “ _John_.” He slurred, shaking his head sharply as if trying to throw himself awake. “Wh’are you—”

The doctor hushed him as he twisted around against Sherlock for better leverage before lobbing the detective down onto the mattress. The iron headboard clanged sharply against the wall as he hit, Sherlock’s limbs falling akimbo as John unceremoniously grabbed one outstretched leg and began pushing up the cuff of the cargos to reveal Sherlock’s boot.

“You can stay here tonight.” John said distantly, concentrating on jerking the tie loose and expertly flicking the laces from the hooks. Sherlock gave a faint grunt as John pried the boot off of him, letting it drop to the floor with a weighty _thump_. As the doctor began working on the other, he glanced up to see he was being watched. Sherlock’s head was craned awkwardly and his eye movements sluggish, intent to follow John’s fingers.

“This doesn’t mean we’re square.” John warned him, turning his attention back to what he was doing and pulled out the long leather tongue far enough to slip the boot off without much trouble.

He plopped the shoe down by its mate then bent over. “I want you gone first thing in the morning.” John added, his tone without a speck of room for debate as he retrieved the strewn sheet from the floor and draped it mostly over the detective’s prone form.

Sherlock stared at him all the while, groggy, features soft. His gaze then drifted downwards to John’s cotton-clad chest where the detective gave a scarce nod and shutting his eyes, a long breath hissing from his nose.

Reaching for his mobile on the side table, John was halfway through turning off his alarm when Sherlock rumbled wearily.

“I have to go back John.” The doctor glanced over to see Sherlock’s eyes were closed, only cracking a faction to gaze up at him after a weighted pause, long enough that John had begun to think he fell asleep again.

“I’m not…done yet. As it stands no one can know I’m alive.” Sherlock continued, and if John hadn’t been so done with him and this entire horrid night, he would have sworn the detective actually looked a touch forlorn. And lord help him if John didn’t feel just a _little_ self-righteous to see it.

Setting his phone down, John pursed his lips. “No worries there.” He remarked at the flowery wallpaper, almost amiable sounding before eyeing Sherlock with a sidelong glare. “I reckon I’ve had enough practice thinking you’re dead.”

Sherlock’s face fell into an all too familiar blankness. It typically came after John called him out on a particularly callous action or comment. To this day John wasn’t sure if it was a modicum of shame slipping through the veneer or if Sherlock was simply disengaging from the conversation. Like it was all suddenly too boring to warrant further attention. Even now Sherlock turned his focus towards the ceiling, the pale lines of his throat sliding up then down slowly.

“Good.” The detective stated flatly then rolled over, putting his back to him.

John actually felt a laugh try to bubble up, acrid as it would be. It stopped somewhere along his throat like sludge, so thick he had to swallow against it twice. How easily the doctor could imagine they were just on some case away from home and here was Sherlock being a right git about something he was obviously at fault for. An epic sulk that would leave John no choice but to throw up his hands and walk away.

Though the magnitude of the fault this time was…

Feeling his anger rise sharply, John tore himself away and stalked into the bathroom. He snapped the lock closed on the door, put the lid down on the toilet and sat. It was there in the darkness and quiet, shut off from everything outside that John leaned forward, burying his face in his palms.

 

 

\--- ..-. / .- -. / --- .-.. -.. / ..-. .-. .. . -. -..

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell hath no fury like a Watson scorned.
> 
> What’s funny is I originally had John telling Sherlock to basically GTFO, _very_ harshly. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And Sherlock was very tired apparently. So we get, Sleepy!lock and GoodGuy!John
> 
> Handy-dandy code translator: <http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html>


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten thousand years later a new chapter! It’s a long one, so hopefully that makes up for the drought in updating.  
> Also, translations for bits of foreign language can be found if you hover over text!
> 
> WARNING: I make mention of a corpse, not overly detailed but it could be triggering. You'll find it after the second section cut.
> 
> And now...a change in perspective.

 

**== 13 th of October 2011 Paris France 9:01 pm =====**

 

He had it wrong.

Monumentally so.

The worst form of psychological torture one could endure was not sleep deprivation, or starvation, or sensory overload, nor depersonalization.

It was _customer service_.

Sherlock Holmes stood poised behind the front desk of the Maison Athénée endeavoring to maintain his sanity whilst the world on the other side endeavored to break it. A veritable battle of wits with the witless.

The torment didn’t stop there. Oh no. Four days of answering the same inane questions ad nauseum. Pretending to be pleased to see people he’d never met before and would never encounter again. The incessant playing of “popular” songs disguised as classical music overhead. The requirement to wear a tie. And perhaps the vilest part of all…the smiling.

Good god the _smiling_.

Never before had Sherlock wanted to tear the zygomaticus from his face as he did after his first shift here. It was small price to pay. If tonight went as planned, he’d never have to see this place again. Or smile again, if he had anything to do with it.

Luckily being the evening hour that it was and on a weekday, it meant the lobby was vacant save for few stragglers here and there. Some arriving from the airport, some already guests coming in for the night. Any sense of liveliness was in the hotel’s bar and lounge area at this point. The low din of talking and laughter seeping its way towards him.

Sherlock however, was far more interested in the goings on of room 802 high above him.

A man by the name of Nicolas Dufort had been in bed with Moriarty for some time, trading confidential political activity in return for _very_ large sums of money, along with a guaranteed nod for a Senior Minister position as he was currently a Junior. One with his ear firmly pressed to the ground of the Élysée Palace, the hub of the French government.

Dufort had arrived at the hotel two hours ago, alone, retrieving a keycard left for him at the front desk and heading straight up to a room registered under the name _Mercier_ —a “guest” who was actually one Thomas Gage, a prime info gatherer in Moriarty’s vast network.

The two would meet discreetly every few months from hotel to hotel. The meetings themselves would happen seemingly at randomly and without much prior communication. Which made catching them in the act exceptionally difficult.

It had taken even Sherlock far longer than he’d intended to track Gage. Following Nicolas’s movements had been uncomplicated; he was a public figure after all. Thomas on the other hand was like tailing a ghost. Dozens of aliases, fake and real residencies across Paris, influential contacts helping him stay deep under the radar.

Then again, sometimes even the best laid defenses can be upheaved by the naivest of things…

Six days ago Thomas Gage was sitting in Z Café on Rue de Châteaudun enjoying an apple turnover and complementary Wi-Fi when he sent an email from his mobile to a “Bugatti52” stating cryptically:

_7 7 Maison Athénée Mercier_

Unbeknownst to Gage however, this particular coffee shop didn’t _offer_ free internet.

He also missed the tall, dark-haired gentleman sitting outside of the café who had tethered his own phone as a hotspot. One who’s unsecured network name remarkably happened to be “ZCafGuest”.

And while Thomas sucked crumbs and glaze from his fingers, Sherlock accessed the entire contents of the man’s phone in a matter of minutes.

It had been easy enough to find the room registered under Mercer for the 7th in the hotel’s systems.

Planting the bugs in Gage’s room meanwhile had been a touch trickier.

Sherlock had snuck up to the 8th floor on his dinner break two days prior, grabbing an abandoned housekeeping trolley left in the hallway and stopping in front of number 802—a corner suite and one of the hotel’s more pricier listings.

As the “Cleaning in Progress” tag was still swinging on the door handle, he slipped into the lavish room, moving swiftly to the suite’s colossal flat-screen telly.

It was during his introductory tour of the Maison Athénée that Sherlock noted each room had several central-air ventilation ducts located high up along the walls. A perfect vantage point if one wanted to see a broad view of the space.

Grabbing a chair to stand on, the detective pried off the metal cover to the vent just over the set. Inside the duct he’d mounted a small black camera, angling it to get the best shot of the bed, wall bar, and lounge.

Next he tucked a wireless microphone into a vase stuffed with silk flowers on the coffee table in the lounge—the likeliest place he believed the two men would choose to converse.

Sherlock had just closed 802’s door and flung the tag back onto the trolley when a maid came round the bend, blushing as he gave her a flirty “Bon après-midi” and a wink as they passed one another. A simple diversion so she wouldn’t notice her cart had suddenly relocated itself. Worked like a charm.

Now two hours and… _twenty seven_ minutes later, according to the detective’s watch, there hadn’t been a sign of either man leaving. _What the hell was taking them so_ —

One of the lifts off to the far right _pinged_ brightly, causing the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck to rise. Keen eyes watched intently as the down indicator above it lit up. As the metal doors spread, two women exited, laughing to one another as they headed towards the bar.

Lobbing a heavy sigh, Sherlock finally broke his statuesque pose, his jaw tightening as placed to fingers two fingers to each temple and rubbed firmly.

He had to be missing _something_.

But what? A third contact incoming? A tip off somehow about his surveillance? From the intel Mycroft was able to supply to him, there hadn’t been a mention of anyone else but the two. And he’d been so painstakingly careful in his planning.

The notion of weeks of meticulous work potentially slipping though his fingers like silt while he stood _idly_ by was a maddening one.

His mind began to reel, churning with possibilities faster than he could cast them aside. For instance there was nothing stopping either man from sneaking out via a fire exit. Though all of those doors had blaring alarms on them when opened, they were only audible within earshot. Useless to him here. _Damn._

Optimally he needed to be in two places at once. Something easily accomplished if the detective had only—

Perhaps it was his divided attention; allowing a primal reaction to movement, a kneejerk processing of key features that saw ashen blonde hair and a confident stride that made Sherlock’s brain tell him it was John coming towards him when it clearly _logically_ wasn’t.

Yet the lapse in rationality was enough for his pulse to elevate, for a sharp thrill to bob through the detective’s stomach like driving too quickly over a dip in the road.

Collecting himself, Sherlock gave the man who’d approached the desk a modest smile, pulling in minute deductions before either spoke. _(Thirty-eight, ex-military (career solider) no visible or concealed injury to suggest being invalid (retired then), single garment bag (overnight, here on business) nominal secondary luggage (travels often). Interesting…)_

“Evening. I’ve got a room booked…Roman.” The man greeted casually ( _French_ _not his native language but passible. Hints of a London born lilt—Oxford educated)_ , placing his small case on the ground and draping the suit bag partially over the counter. From his back pocket he produced a leather wallet ( _Hand-made_ _Italian. Card slots are tight—trip to Italy in the last day or so)_ , working from it his identification and a standard airline indorsed credit card. One designed to earn you flight points with charges.

Taking the two cards, Sherlock started to process the check-in, pulling up the registry information in the computer console tucked underneath the desk’s thin counter of an overhang.

“Must be dead boring this time of night.” Roman mused, leaning an elbow on the counter. Sherlock glanced up long enough to hand the cards back, catching the man sporting a rather beguiling grin surrounded by a weeks’ worth of amber stubble on a chiseled jaw.

“One makes do.” Sherlock—or rather “Benoît” according to his shiny name tag offered stuffily in perfect French. He’d chosen Versailles for his native dialect. Seemed appropriate for the persona: eager, arse-kisser, well groomed, five years’ experience in the hospitality industry, multi-lingual, night shifts only, available to work _immediately_.

Not that he apparently needed to be so well-rounded; The HR manager barely glanced over his immaculate CV—references curtsey of Mycroft—before running Sherlock through a gauntlet of absurd interview questions neither of them honestly cared about the answers to.

Thankfully, that portion of the interview had been kept short and soon enough they were touring the premises. He was officially hired the next day and asked to come in for training.

Roman chuckled, apparently unfazed by the detective’s aloofness.

Sherlock looked back down at the console, tapping a few commands and sending a document to the printer, the buzz of the machine coming online was brash in the stillness of the lobby.

As he unlocked a drawer in the desk, selecting a blank plastic card from a tall stack and feeding it into the key encoding machine, the detective supposed it wasn’t _too_ unreasonable that he’d been reminded of John.

Though the man before him was practically Sherlock’s height, the appearance and the mannerisms of a person conditioned in the army were unmistakable. From his hair—cropped short on the sides and back, longer at the crown where it shot off in several directions. To the broadly strong but lean frame, carved muscles hidden underneath simple clothing—tan khakis and a black t-shirt, a dark leather bomber jacket without the shearling collar.

Perhaps the most striking difference lay in their attitudes. While both men carried themselves with the self-assurance of someone able to handle a dire situation at the drop of a hat, John’s _swagger_ was subtler. Albeit stubborn at times, his pride was usually a quiet one. Unless John happened to be drunk or hell-bent on picking a woman up. _Or both._ Then the ‘Watson Charm’ practically exuded from the doctor’s pores. It made him unassuming otherwise. Most people saw a short man with a warm smile and a soft jumper, but there was so much more to John Watson then that. So much Sherlock had yet to—

The detective caught the train of thought before it went any further, tossing it aside with the unseen flick of a finger as he reached up and pulled the active card from the encoder. There was little point in dwelling on… _idealisms_. He needed to focus.

“Here you are Monsieur, room 473, fourth floor, enjoy your stay.” Sherlock rattled off quickly, sliding a printed copy of his registration info—a single occupancy, booked only for tonight _—_ and his keycard across the counter.

Roman considered him for a moment, something thoughtful passing over him that made Sherlock pause. It was gone a second later behind a broad grin as he reached forward and took the two items. “Thank you uh… _Benoît_.” He replied after peeking at Sherlock’s name tag, stumbling a little over his pronunciation. The detective gave him a nod in return, watching as Roman gathered his things and headed towards the lifts, disappearing from view as the duel doors shut.

 

.. / .-- .- -. - . -.. / - ---

 

An additional half an hour failed to produce Dufort, or Gage for that matter. It did however succeed in Sherlock appreciating why some employees went on homicidal rampages.

In the past minute he’d considered pulling a fire alarm or ringing in a bomb threat.

Anything but stand there a millisecond longer as his latest check-in searched _yet again_ for her wallet in her unnecessarily enormous purse while her dog ( _Papillon—obvious bladder problem_ ) glared at him from within its ( _€200? €400? Ludicrously expensive_ ) red leather carrier-crate-bag- _thing_ she’d left perched on the counter. Coincidentally right beside the plastic enclosed sign that read:

‘ _S'il vous plaît avoir une identification appropriée  
et la méthode de paiement prêt à l'arrivée!_ ’

Sherlock grimaced at the tiny shivering creature. Enjoying a few precious non-smiling-seconds before snapping back into his fabricated empathy when the woman ( _Fifty-eight. Extensive facial work (brow, eyes, lips, chin). Neck done most recently (healing scars concealed under silk scarf). Only child. Self-victimizing. Here visiting family—specifically dying parent (more than likely mother—hates her). Itching for them to pull the plug so she can make her scheduled trip to the Bahamas by the weekend. Divorced (twice). Trying for a third—hence the trip to the islands._ ) tisked and heaved her bag up onto the counter.

“I just had it this afternoon!” She bustled ( _Strong distinction between long and short vowels, use of belgicisms_ — _born and raised in Brussels)._ Her rooting causing the top of the bag to splay wide enough to showcase nearly everything inside.

After a brief sweep of its contents the detective sighed, subduing an eye roll.

“Perhaps it’s in another bag _Madame_.” Sherlock urged thinly, ignoring the stare of black beady eyes to his right and lobbing a petulant glare at the top of her floppy hat. It was 10 pm, what light source was she exactly _shielding_ herself from?

“No…No I know it’s in _here_.” The woman contested, hat twitching with conviction when her dog gave a sharp sneeze.

“OH! François, _bless_ _you_.” She abandoned her fruitless search to coo through the tiny bars. “Does my little sweet have the sniffles?” She tutted, releasing a string of squeaky kissy sounds and wiggling a manicured finger in the dog’s face.

Sherlock calculated the odds of blowing his entire mission verses his mounting desire to have her hauled away by security. Perhaps by _mistaking_ the bottle of pepper spray ( _never used)_ in the woman’s bag for a compact handgun.

Alas… _too high._

“Well if Madame knows the number I can simply _put it in_.” He said waving blindly over the computer console in front of him, his attention drawn across the room to one of the lobby’s lifts as it signaled a car coming downstairs. _For the love of god…BE DUFORT._

A snooty remark was returned, something about if she _knew_ the number she wouldn’t _need_ the card now _would_ she. The detective gave little in way of a reaction, completely fixated on the doors. His excitement was short-lived however when all that exited was the on-duty manager, offering Sherlock a nod and a weedy smile as the man made his rounds, heading towards the coat check room.

The detective’s right lower eyelid gave a faint twitch, his hands balling into fists by his sides.

He became sharply aware of the drama escalating in front of him. The woman now convinced she must have left her wallet in the car that dropped her off at the hotel.

“Can I…can I use your phone?” She sniveled, sounding on the verge of hysterics. One hand daubing a handkerchief to her eyes, another was pressed flat against her white blouse. Like her heart threatened to give out from sheer calamity of it all. Tragic indeed. To the unaware.

The true misfortune though lay in that poor Mme.—( _Bellamy? Bellerose? Belrose? Hmmm. Not committed to short term. Whoops)_ Mme. _B-Something,_ had no idea whom she was attempting to fleece.

“May.” The detective replied flatly, inwardly savoring the startled little shift backwards she took when their eyes met. Any prior pleasantness he’d exhibited had dropped, replaced by a stony expression and a piercing gaze.

“What?” She blinked, the mimicry faltering even as her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Sherlock appeared to heighten; clasping his hands behind his back and regarding her for a second more before his chest rose sharply.

“ _May_ I use your phone? The question isn’t if you _can_ use it. Of course you _could_. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence could operate a phone. Simple really. Press the right digits in the right order and lo and behold you’re making a call. However, what you _should_ be asking for is _permission_.

Much like someone would ask to use the perfectly working mobile phone you have in your possession. The one you’ve conveniently forgotten about as to not incur a charge by ringing a landline.

So to answer the _proper_ question: no. No you maynot use this phone. It’s for company use only. Not that you even need to because your wallet isn’t _in_ the cab, nor is it _in_ your _massive_ purse. It’s in the Louis Vuitton handbag you purchased this afternoon.” He motioned to a receipt peeking out from within the pages of a leather-bound cheque book visible amongst her things.

“You put your wallet inside of the new bag to test if it would fit. Which it did. But then got distracted by something and forgot to take it out—perhaps François here having another little _accident_. Which is why you ended up writing a cheque for it rather than using your card. The very same card—if you’ve been keeping up—that I need to see in order to process you.”

“Now, unless you’re actually prepared to check in, if you’d be so kind as to take yourself and your incontinent dog and _get away from my desk_.”

While the last of his words crackled in the air, Sherlock fixed her with a reproachful smirk. A silent invitation for rebuttal. He suspected however by the aghast look on Mme. B-Something’s blanched face, her lower lip trembling as it gaped, rumpled tissue still hovering by her owlish eyes; that none would be coming.

“Excuse me.” He nodded, twisting on his heels and strutting towards a door off to the left, plain looking save for the small rectangular plaque stating: ‘Employés Seulement.’

“H—how—how _dare_ _you_!” She finally managed to squeal, startling her dog enough to yip. “I demand to speak to your—” The rest of her request was cut off as the door firmly shut behind him.

With a satisfied hum Sherlock sprung off the door, vigorously rubbing his hands together as he walked to a small desk in the corner, its surface clear but for a phone, cheap coffee machine _(burnt scent—brew is several hours old)_ , a box of even cheaper tea—far better stuff to be found in the hotel’s kitchen, and a stack of styrofoam cups.

He bent over, snaking a long arm into the dark recess between the desk and the wall, feeling for the sleek laptop he had tucked away there earlier. He drew it out, careful not to jostle the power cord and have the computer revert to standby while still recording the stream from Gage’s room. He set it down on the desk and grabbed a nearby rolling chair, swirling round to face the laptop.

Scrubbing over the trackpad, the screen flashed to life prompting him with an alert box for a password. With a joyous spread of his fingers Sherlock quickly typed and unlocked the desktop, two minimized windows waiting for him on the taskbar.

If he didn’t have enough evidence on Dufort by now, he never would.

After a glance at his watch, he pulled up one window containing video feeds from the lobby’s security cameras, three in all: one trained on the main entrance, another at the archway to the bar, and the third overviewing the front desk. That one in particular revealed an agitated Mme. B-Something fuming by her mound of luggage and a hand cradled up by her ear.

Sherlock gave a distasteful scoff. _Dull._

As anticipated the phone next to him began ringing, line no. 4 lighting as he picked up the receiver.

“ _Good evening_. Thank you for calling the Maison Athénée my name is Jérôme, how can I help you?” Sherlock answered, raising his pitch by a few octaves. Not surprised in the least to hear the shrill voice on the other end.

“Hello, my name is Madame Bélanger—” Sherlock scowled briefly, disappointed with how close he’d been to getting her name.

“I’ve just had the most disgraceful interaction with one of your desk boys. He was horribly rude to me and I wish to file a formal complaint!”

Clearing his throat, the detective curbed the urge to drop his ruse at that _boy_ comment and tell her to _faire chier_. Instead he donned his sincerest sounding concern. “I’m _so_ sorry to hear that Madame, please hold while I get the manager.”

“Tha—” His finger jammed down on the hold button, dropping the receiver unceremoniously back in its cradle.

“Now where were we?” Sherlock murmured playfully, clicking on the second window to maximize it, greeted at once to a dim grainy image of room 802 and—he leaned forward for a better look, narrowing his eyes…

…a very nude Thomas Gage lounging in bed.

 _Oh_.

The detective blanked, a faint gasp passing his lips as he slowly sat back in his seat.

Well…this, certainly explained the delay for something that was essentially two men getting together to gossip. Sherlock felt a prickling warmth spread across his cheeks. _That_ hadn’t been in the intel he acquired. Shifting in his seat, he took in the rest of the room unable to locate—

From outside the camera’s peripheral strolled in Dufort, must having just come from the bathroom. He was equally as nude—still rather fit for a man his age ( _Early sixties_ ) though parliament had done him no favors as he was going a little soft round the middle and flanks. His movements held the languidness of a body still swimming with Oxytocin, heavy and loose as Nicolas proceeded to crawl into the bed, prowling towards Gage...

With a swift tap of a finger, Sherlock killed the feed.

Pulling the newly created video file into a freeware editing program, Sherlock began skipping through the footage, more than pleased at the snippets of conversation he heard taking place earlier on in their meeting:

Bills currently in or heading for consideration and several Ministers’ names being dropped. Those who were looking to vote one way or another and the ones who could be pushed either way if need be. There was a brief mention about a promising piece of trade legislation with Saudi Arabia ( _imports of crude petroleum)_ and a very juicy tidbit about the Prime Minister’s plans to reduce funds going toward national defenses.

Sherlock took a sizeable jump ahead in the timeline to see Dufort abruptly out of his chair and kneeling in front of Gage’s, bent over his lap and with his hands resting on Thomas’s thighs.

The detective’s eyes widened, dragging the scrubber back until both men were still in their seats. With a tiny click and keystroke he sliced the file there; separating it into two parts before highlight everything to the right of the cut and deleting it.

Whatever extra _activities_ Dufort chose to engage in was his own business. Sherlock was only interested in the exchange of information. And now he had it.

As he set the edited video to render, Sherlock pulled up a blank email form and a text file on his desktop labeled ‘Guest list’. In it were the email addresses to the offices of the President of the French Republic and the Prime Minister, every single member of the Council of Ministers and every major news outlet in France.

He copied the entire list and pasted it into the ‘To:’ section, filling the ‘From:’ with Nicolas Dufort’s public address—more likely to be whitelisted from any spam filters.

“ _Thought you might like to see this_.” Sherlock mused aloud as he typed the very same words in the Subject box.

He checked the status of the export; the bar nearly at 65% percent, then glanced to the security camera feeds, filling with a haughty pleasure at seeing Mme. Bélanger still trapped in the purgatory of call waiting.

 _‘Bit not good.’_ His mind softly supplied, causing the corners of the detective’s lips to curl a little.

Then again Sherlock recalled plenty of instances where John took guilty pleasure in witnessing one of his deductive dressing-downs. The doctor fighting a grin or disguising a laugh in the bark of a cough. Then fixing Sherlock with a reproachful look before both of them sniggled with laughter later on.

The detective’s smile promptly faded as the craving to experience that again welled in his chest, vibrant and sore. To hear John laugh, to _make_ John laugh. To receive that look of half aggravation and half admiration. That sacred amount of a ‘bit not good’ they both ruefully loved.

For John to be—

 _Idealisms._ Sherlock scolded himself, turning his sights to the small green processing bar slowly filling towards his freedom from this exhausting mission. He still had Gage to contend with, but that would come at another time. Tonight, was the end for Nicolas Dufort. He would see to that.

He had to. All of this, every step, every encounter, every day had to be worth the price of the life he abandoned to keep it safe. _A life I was just beginning to enjoy._

But to give in to nostalgia was to give in to distraction. And he couldn’t afford the luxury of being homesick.

Not when the stakes were so high, with so much to do and only he and his brother’s limited help to do it. Meanwhile Moriarty’s influence spread across Europe like a shadow, constantly moving and reworking itself, growing bigger and bigger. So many pawns to track and take down and all Sherlock could do right now was think of—Well, perhaps not _just_ him.

He wondered how Mrs. Hudson was faring, though he knew John would take care of her. No matter what.

But what about Lestrade? The Met must have been on its knees without him there to help. London was probably in ruins by now.

Or Molly, bearing the burden of knowledge she did for him. Though Sherlock supposed not having him around to pester her for body parts and access to corpses was a bit of a relief nonetheless.

And John…well try as he might, Sherlock couldn’t help but ponder how he was doing. _What_ he was doing now that he was gone.

_October…had it been four months already?_

Sherlock broke from his realization and checked the export dialog box, now at 88%.

Glancing at the security feeds, he was vexed to see the harpy in the floppy hat had ensnared his manager and was currently complaining at him, free arm waving wildly as the other was curled around her dog out from its crate. _Perfect._ The only point in Sherlock’s favor was the manager was a timid man ( _Recovering from a stress-induced ulcer. Hates confrontation_ ). Even now the man was trying desperately to calm the situation, looking around anxiously in fear of causing a scene.

As he then took in the time: 10:15 pm, his brain unhelpfully supplied that it was 9:15 in London. That John was probably still awake. Wherever he was.

His eyes flicked to the phone sitting innocently on the table.

_No._

_Absolutely not._

_It’s too dangerous._

Even if he just called John’s mobile…well it would look like a wrong number wouldn’t it? People get miscalled all the time didn’t they? Sometimes from all over the place.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, berating himself for even envisioning the idea. What good would it do? He couldn’t interact with John in any way, so he certainly couldn’t _talk_ to him.

But he could _hear_ him.

Deduce how the doctor was from his voice perhaps.

Before Sherlock could debate any further with himself he had picked up the phone, rapidly punching the country code for London and a phone number he could dial in his sleep. At the first purr of it ringing he’d hit the mute button, clenching his free hand tightly in his lap. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that John just might let a call go to voicemail at this hour.

“Hello?” The sudden voice on the other end sent the same lurch through Sherlock’s gut. He stopped his instinct to respond, his mouth opening then quickly shutting. It wouldn’t matter if he did anyway, with the mute engaged John was hearing nothing but silence from his end.

“Hello?” John spoke again. _He’s been drinking._ The detective’s mind flared with observations, none of them good. John sounded tired, no…not _there_. Not himself. He heard John being exhausted before, after a long shift at work or several nights with little sleep during a case. And while the man did sound drained, there was a hollowness to his voice.

The call was brief, as expected. Ending almost as soon as it started and leaving Sherlock feeling none better for doing so.

A loud chime from the computer startled him as the export finally finished and the file was ready to attach. Forcing himself into action, he added it to the email and with a deft click, sent Dufort’s doom across cyberspace.

Quickly packing up, Sherlock grabbed his small coat, putting it on and tucking the laptop underneath his arm. As his hand came to rest on the doorknob, he took a deep breath, centering himself. Pushing the sound of John’s voice far into the back of his mind for later contemplation.

“There you are Benoît.” The on-duty manager practically groaned in relief as he saw Sherlock striding towards them. When the detective arrived, he was met with a desperately hopeful look from him and a wonderfully odious glare from Mme…

Huh, he’d already deleted it. _B-Something._

Leaning towards him like were some secret meeting, the manager kept his voice even and low as he spoke. “Madame Bélanger here has raised some _issues_ with me.” He stressed quietly, giving the Sherlock a tight smile. “And I explained to _her_ that there must be a reasonable explanation hmm?”

“Oh of course…of course.” Sherlock agreed with the highest air of concern, placing a curled finger to his mouth as he thought. “ _Umm._ Well what happened was she’s an insufferable wretch and I quit.” He continued in such a matter of fact tone his manager at first nodded then flinched at the comprehension of what he actually said.

Bélanger wailed with rage as Sherlock gave them a parting nod and headed for the stretch of glass doors, leaving her and his _former_ manager stuttering in his wake. The poor man quickly launching himself to subdue her as she popped off her shoe and attempted to hurl it at the detective’s back.

Sherlock stepped outside onto the pavement, taking a deep blissful breath of autumn air and city grime. Not the grime he favored filling his lungs with, but welcomed nevertheless. Pulling his coat closed around him, he plucked the name tag from his lapel and threw it over his shoulder, hearing it _plink_ on the concrete as he walked away into the night.

 

... --- / -- .- -. -.--

 

Two weeks later Sherlock stood with his scarf pressed to his nose in one of Thomas Gage’s many bolt holes, staring at his lifeless body hanging from an exposed water pipe running across the ceiling.

He had lost track of Gage following the Dufort fiasco and judging by the state of decomposition, Thomas must have died relatively soon after.

Though the scene pointed so obviously to suicide ( _toppled chair in the right direction, well-structured noose of nylon rope anchored to something that could bear the weight of a 175.26 cm tall man with a muscular build_ ), the second set of marks Sherlock could just make out on Gage’s blotted neck spoke otherwise. He hadn’t exactly strangled himself _then_ hung himself had he?

No. Thomas Gage was murdered. Garroted with a thin cord, probably wire and then done up like this to cover it. Whoever did this was meticulous in masking any signs of struggle from the room. Though based on the wrinkle patterns in the linens of Thomas’s bed, another person had slept there. The sheet rucked to the left where this individual had slipped the wire around his neck then hauled backwards. To the untrained eye however it simply looked like Gage tossed and turned in bed.

The detective mentioned as much in his anonymous tip to the police. Though he highly doubted they would follow through with his observations.

It didn’t matter, Gage was finished and so was Sherlock in France.

It was two days later as Sherlock waited in the Charles de Gaulle airport for his plane to begin boarding that he saw the newsflash on one of the large wall-mounted televisions. The volume was too low for him to hear the anchor speaking but the headline beneath her was plenty to go by:

 **Nicolas Dufort Makes First Appearance in Court** **.**  
_Pleads not guilty to seventeen counts of high treason._  
  
They then played a clip of Dufort being escorted from the steps of the Palais de Justice while being swarmed by press as he was taken towards an awaiting police car. The clip ended just as Nicolas was made to duck to get into the back seat, his face grim, the same “ Aucun commentaire” uttered by his lawyer over and over as he fought off the reporters.

Though Sherlock didn’t smile outwardly—still traumatized from the abuse to his cheeks, he _was_ pleased. He’d been beaten to the punch with Gage but at least he could see the outcome of his work in this case. Dufort would undoubtedly be found guilty, the evidence too rich and high treason carried with it a life sentence.

The detective was just about to turn his attention back to the newspaper in his hands when the announcement came overhead:

_“Air France flight AF1204 to Rome Fiumicino now boarding. Proceed to Port 6”_

Rising from his chair, Sherlock left the paper in it and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. He’d have a little over two hours to go over the intel he’d received that morning from one of Mycroft’s cronies. A list of the biggest fish in the pond of his next destination.

He all but glanced at it for a minute or two before spending the majority of his flight replaying John’s voice in his head.

 

\- .. -- . ...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Handy-dandy code translator: <http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html>


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while...which I very much apologize for. This chapter turned out to be a bit of a beast and evolved into a lot more then I initially intended it to. But I've worked it and reworked it and I have stop or otherwise this story will never finish haha. I still have to read it through myself in its entirety, so if you notice anything that's off, that's why. I just had to get this up. 
> 
> There's a few triggering things in here, mostly mentions of drug use and overdosing. We'll chat later but I wanted to give you guys a heads up in case that bothers anyone.

There were scarce instances in his life thus far; little enough Sherlock only needed one hand to count them, that he would admit regret in not listening to his brother.

This was one of them.

 

**== 2 nd of December 2011 Granada Spain 12:24 pm ====**

“Sherlock, stay out of Turkey.”           

“Or what? You’ll rat me out to Mummy?”

“I’ll suspend you.”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you? Snipping the line when you don’t have to look me in the eye. Not surprising. Dictating from your ivory tower _is_ your preferred method.”

“…It’s merely a waste of your time and I’ve better use for your energies elsewhere. We’ve received intelligence of two major connections in Morocco and several more possibly in Libya that I’d like you to investigate. I can have you heading to the former within the next hour.”

“That is…if you’ll cease bickering with me and remember we’re in this _together_.”

“…”

“Fine.”

“But I’ll need a bit of pocket money. You know how expensive these little excursions can get.”

“I’m _aware_. I’ll have some wired later this afternoon. And do try and stretch this allowance out further than the last. Despite your belief otherwise Sherlock, these funds aren’t _infinite_. We’ll make contact once you land in Marrakech.”

 

**== 1 st of January 2012 Istanbul Turkey 1:52 am ====**

 

Sherlock fixated on the corner of the room directly in front of him. Mentally picking at the seam-lines where the once neutral paint was cracking around a stress fracture, branching its way out across each adjoining wall. He could almost feel the edges of paint slipping underneath his fingernails, a sharp stab into the soft meat beneath before the satisfying _crack_ as he’d pry another piece free.

He mimicked the sensation with the tip of his thumbnail trapped between his teeth, bits splintering off as the detective slowly gnawed at it. The other hand meanwhile worried over a gash in the arm of the chair he’d entrenched himself in, fingers plucking incessantly at the splayed fibers. Casting the strands he pulled free over the side.

What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette— _or several_. Or his violin. Never had the inaccessibility of the instrument been so acute. Though at this point, Sherlock wasn’t sure how much playing verses how much torture he would do to the poor thing. Nevertheless it would have been preferable to _this_. To sitting here and devoting one more modicum of consideration to the little plastic bag filled ¼’s of the way with chalky white powder by him.

It sat so innocuously on a roughly hewn square of plywood atop an egg crate—a makeshift table and about the finest piece of “furniture” around him besides the ratty armchair and a single that didn’t take the observations of a genius to tell him sleeping in it would be ill advised.

Admittedly, it did prove to be a bit of a welcomed distraction; in the past hour Sherlock had devised at least a dozen tests to run on the puckering mattress alone. Dubious secretions notwithstanding, the bed was also farthest away from the room’s only heat source, a haggard radiator he’d moved the chair up to as close as he’d dared.

At the very least the diminutive size of the room—predictable for the price Sherlock paid for it—meant the ailing thing didn’t have to labor _as_ hard to warm it.

Still, he had opted to keep his coat on, a grey parka he succeeded in haggling for well below the asking price. The merchant he got it from claimed the jacket was a US import—clearly a sweatshop knockoff by the inconsistency in the stitching and a lack of the trademarked insignia found inside that brand of parka. All of which the detective proceeded to point out much to the other man’s ire. He had hurriedly shoved the coat into Sherlock’s arms and snatched the offered money, bidding him the Turkish equivalent to go fuck himself with it.

Much like this _economy_ lodging, Sherlock had kept his spending to a minimum, needing practically all the money he’d secreted away from Mycroft to fund this little side mission.

It had been evident enough that his brother was keeping something from him. Mycroft respected Sherlock’s time and the wasting of it about as much as _he_ respected his. So, while he dutifully eliminated what turned out to be a major arms dealer in Casablanca, Sherlock used his downtime to virtually snoop around Turkey.

He found the predictable sorts upheaval. There was the long standing feud between the Turkish state and the PPK, a Kurdish militant group. There were the Grey Wolves, political separatists striving for the ideal nation. Honor killings. Human trafficking and prostitution. Extortion. The insurgence of gangs and the ever emergent Turkish mafia, both whose primary business was the manufacturing and selling of narcotics.

Namely, heroin.

Leave it to Mycroft to be so insipid. As if just being in the proximity of drugs meant Sherlock would instantly relapse. Though it wouldn’t be the first time his brother assumed the worst of him without any _actual_ evidence.

But to deny him access to an entire country and with it the chance to eliminate another filament in Moriarty’s web just because of his past… _habits_ ; was not only a true waste of his time but an insult to their entire work thus far.

On top of that, the interference itself was completely pointless.

 _If_ he was aiming to use again, Sherlock could do it just as easily back in London as he could out here. Mycroft knew that well enough by now. So to forbid him going based on that alone made no sense unless…unless the connection in Turkey was _directly_ related.

Which was why as soon as he was finished with his task in Morocco, Sherlock exchanged his plane ticket to Benghazi for the next flight to Istanbul and paid the difference.

Not more than a half hour after reaching the main of the city, his suspicions were confirmed while the detective sat in a crowded tea house in Eminönü. An assortment of heavy woven rugs hung in a mishmash of colors and sizes along white-washed walls. The hazy air infused with the scent of spices and the smoke of several hookahs.

Long wooden benches with large elaborately carved backs and well-used cushions were crammed end to end and back to back to supply as much seating as possible in the main room. Outside the street was swarmed with people passing through and the shouts of tightly packed street merchants trying to sell their wares.

He’d forgotten just how wonderfully chaotic Turkey was in some areas, almost claustrophobic, its streets churning like veins ready to absorb you into the flow. A bit like London in ways. In all his travels thus far, Sherlock had preferred the assignments that planted him in major cities. He found the thrall familiar, the grit comforting.

Sherlock had just dropped a cube of beet sugar into his çay—pronounced _chai_ and traditionally a light to dark black tea—when his mobile chimed.

Reluctantly he peeled a chilled hand from around the tall clear glass of amber liquid to fetch it. There was no need to guess whom the incoming message was from, though the text he found waiting in his inbox filled the detective with the same pleasure his first sip of tea did.

_+44 7700 900352 (11:23 AM): You seem to need a refresher in basic geography._

_‘Mmmm no. I think I’m right where I should be.’_ He had texted back.

_+44 7700 900352 (11:25 AM): And that’s Libya Sherlock. Not there._

_‘What’s wrong can’t stand me having all the fun?’_

Not allowing time for a reply, Sherlock rapidly typed a follow-up:

_‘Let’s play Cost Efficiency. Either you tell me what’s out here not worth my time, or I’ll go find it myself.’_

Not five seconds later the phone rang in his hand.

“ _Yes_?” Sherlock purred as he answered the call.

“His name is Mahir Tiryaki.” Came a sour voice on the other end. Sherlock sat back in his seat, grinning into his cup. Mycroft must have been at home. He never spoke so openly, let alone used Sherlock’s name these days anywhere else. “He’s the CEO of a company called Atlantis Pharmaceuticals.”

“Developing a tad more than cough syrup I presume.” The younger Holmes supplied, plonking a second cube of sugar into his drink. He stirred it slowly while he waited, watching the tiny granules melt and eventually break apart.

His brother sighed ( _Long suffering—Est.1976_ ). “Quite. We’ve had our eye on him for some time now. Lots of rumors, mostly ties to several prominent Turkish mafias, but nothing that sticks. Every inspection of the company’s laboratory and factory has come up clean. The theory is he has a private facility stashed away somewhere in Istanbul.”

“ _Ah_ and you can’t get to see his clubhouse.” The detective’s face lit up.

“Sherlock—”

“But _I_ could.” He cooed.

“This isn’t a question of whether or not you _could_.” His brother exhaled with the tonal equivalent of an eye roll.

“Yes but it’s certainly an answer.” Sherlock countered, his interest peaking. Oh there was no finer apple then one Mycroft couldn’t reach, let alone get to eat. Not that he ever would. Sherlock honestly couldn’t recall the last time he witnessed his brother consume a piece of fruit not attached to a pastry. “What else do you have on him?”

There’d been a weighted pause and Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft glowering.

The detective narrowed his eyes, fingers drumming on the small table in front of him. “You do know trying to argue with me expressively doesn’t work _quite_ as well over the phone.”

“Gambling.” The elder Holmes conceded as much as he’d allow himself to sound like it. Begrudging in a way that took Sherlock straight back to their youth. When Mummy would make Mycroft accompany a then six year old Sherlock when the boy wanted to explore the woods outside their home or go to the pond to catch frogs and newts.

_He can’t keep you from drowning 3124 kilometers away._

Then again Mycroft had struggled keeping him afloat in the same room hadn’t he? Sherlock blinked, dispelling the thought and pressed on. “ _With_?” He’d asked impatiently, a strong inkling this conversation was nearing its end.

“He owns several thoroughbreds.” Was the last drop of information Mycroft seemed willing to provide before launching in a vain attempt at dissuading him. “Sherlock…if you pursue this, you’ll do so on your own. I’d advise you to reconsider your plans.”

“Is that _so_?” The detective’s lip curled as he replied haughtily, “And here I was going to send you a box of tea.” He drew the phone from his ear, ending the call with a punch of his thumb. Sherlock let the mobile swivel downward till it dangled from his fingertips. He drowned the sinking in his stomach with a gulp of searing tea.

Pinpointing the racetrack Mahir Tiryaki preferred had been painless, there was only one located in Istanbul after all. And a quick internet search had produced dozens of photos of Mahir as well as most of the business and financial information for his company. Needless to say, it was doing well. Very well. Just last week Atlantis Pharmaceuticals had struck several distribution partnerships with some of the most prominent hospitals in the city.

Getting into Mahir’s good graces had been a bit trickier.

Sherlock secured this gecekondu of a bolt hole and in two weeks had established a schedule.

Tiryaki frequented the Veliefendi Racecourse Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. Though the detective assumed the man had his own private viewing box, Mahir would often be sitting in the stands or mulling around on the large park-like green where visitors often watched the races. He also only bet when his horses were _not_ racing that day. And of the times he did, Tiryaki usually favored poorer odds for higher gains, which meant he tended to lose often. The typical risk-taking behavior of an addict Sherlock could appreciate.

It was the perfect in.

Sherlock was forced to _rent_ suits—though he made up for the dreadfulness of having to with the best quality he could find on short notice. Far from cheap and not tailored. But if he was going to pass off as a sharp upstart it would do.

That following Monday, Sherlock had arrived early at the track like he typically did. He would view that day’s lineups, observe the horses as they were saddled up in the paddock and their riders as the mulled around the locker rooms all before his target appeared.

Mahir was in his late thirties, well-groomed—dense but manicured eyebrows, clean-shaven—a product enthusiast if Sherlock had ever seen one from the evenness of warm olive skin to the fine slickness of his short black hair. His outfits were casually upper class from what parts the detective could see beyond the man’s coat. Expensive thread choices but not obviously so. Not like Sherlock who aimed for showy.

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that an opportunity presented itself in a very displeased Mahir.

The detective had watched him lose every single bet he made that day from his perch on the risers. He could tell just from the stiffness in his gait as the man returned from the window that Tiryaki was ready to leave if this next race didn’t pan out. And it wouldn’t by the quick glance Sherlock got of his race card when he slipped up beside him. Mahir had been brooding alone near the rail separating the track from the stands.

“If you’ve put any money down on Babaarat I’d reconsider.” The detective had spoken up informally, nodding towards the five or so jockeys walking towards the starter gate. To the very right of the gate, was a large electronic board displaying the horses for the next race, the horse in question had odds to win. Mahir regarded him with an expected skepticism.

Sherlock leaned forward, lacing his fingers and resting them on the chilly rail. “Her rider’s just broken up with his girlfriend. Rather messy from the looks of it. His head won’t be in the race.” He supplied.

“And you know this how?” The other man inquired, just on the right side of amused for Sherlock’s purposes. He couldn’t have asked for a better lead-in.

Time to impress.

“Well there’s his appearance for starters…” He began, the tempo of his words quickening as he went on. “First, the small cut on his jaw and puffy skin under his eyes. Terrible sleep last night, left him in a rush to get ready this morning where he nicked himself shaving. Can’t be nerves, he’s been racing for years. So, he’s _upset_ about something. Next, there’s the neurotic checking of his phone.” Sherlock mentioned, Tiryaki glance over and narrowed his gaze as they both watched the jockey dig something out of his pocket. The young man raised it halfway up to his face, thumb swiping over what appeared to be a small mobile.

“The compulsiveness says he’s eager for contact, could be a close friend or family member in hospital, hence the loss of sleep, but then why not just ring for an update? No. Whoever he’s hoping to hear from, he can’t simply contact himself. _Why_ is that?”

Mahir’s amusement grew as he raised a brow. “Perhaps he is waiting on a better job offer.” He suggested. Though his accent was rich and heavy, Tiryaki’s handle on the English language was impressive.

“Possibly.” Sherlock gave a nod. “But _wrong_.” He smirked, holding out his binoculars. “Look at the hand holding the phone.”

Mahir carefully received them and peered towards the starting gate, luckily the jockey had paused in his walk while he was looking at his mobile. Adjusting the focus, Tiryaki studied the man’s hand, catching a small glint of gold sitting halfway between the rider’s second and third knuckle. “He is wearing a ring on his little finger.” He reported back.

“Correction, he’s wearing a _woman’s_ ring on his little finger. While it’s not entirely out of place for a man to wear a pinky ring, that one’s much too small to be his. Moreover there’s the narrowness of the band itself—rather dainty for a man’s ring wouldn’t you say?”

Lowering the binoculars, Mahir gazed at him with quiet regard as the detective went on. “Insomnia, restlessness, clinging to objects of sentimental value—”

“He’s lost someone he cares for.” Sherlock finished with a shrug of his brows.

He watched with baited breath as Mahir considered him, then the board, then his card, tapping the edge lightly on the railing. Feeling his novelty starting to slip, Sherlock went for broke and added with a practiced air of impassiveness while he stared off onto the track:

“Then again, there’s no reason to listen to me when the numbers say otherwise. _Far_ less chancy betting on a sure thing.”

It was a gamble in itself. By all accounts Sherlock should have opened with more personal observations to prove his abilities, even with how poorly that could have ended up going. But if he was right to assume Mahir favored risk, well, what was more risky then taking the advice of a complete stranger?

_Undoubtedly moving in with one…_

There was a chuckle at his side and the detective glanced over to see Mahir smiling to himself before regarding him again, something amiable now in his attitude.

“All gambling holds a certain amount of risk.” Mused Tiryaki. “You can throw all the logic and numbers at it you want. In the end, it is _luck_ that decides if you win or lose.”

A harsh clanking tore Sherlock from his recollection. No longer in the muted sun and open air of the racecourse, he looked to the radiator as it began to hiss and thrum. A fierce shiver ran through him and he twisted towards it, inching his toes closer as gorgeous warmth began emanating from the expanding metal into his shins.

It wouldn’t be enough, not even close. His extremities were verging on painfully cold.

Sherlock clenched the fingers tearing like a vulture at the chair’s arm tightly for several seconds then let them flair loose, blood pulsing back into his fingertips. He did it again. Then again. His other hand only better off for having been pressed up against his face for so long.

Relinquishing his abused thumb with a snarl, he pulled the coat tighter around him and drove his hands under his arms. The movement sparked an absent sense of déjà vu… _but for what_?

The detective searched his memory, first recent then farther back, tumbling through correlations of coat and chair and shivering like an idiot— _Ah. There._

He recalled being in a similar arrangement when the heating would fail at the flat. Though the building itself was in moderately solid condition, up to code if one ignored the dilapidation that was 221C and what he suspected was a burgeoning hole in the roof. It was the eternals however: pipes, ducts, and the ever finicky furnace that belayed its age. Come mid-autumn when the boiler was tasked to do anything beyond heating water it would constantly threaten to break and usually did at least once or twice a season. Sometimes remaining out for several days while Mrs. Hudson scrambled to get someone in to fix it, leaving John and he huddled at night in as many layers as they could by the fireplace.

The odd, drifty feeling of misplaced familiarity faded, something wistful swirling up in its wake and Sherlock followed it, letting his eyes slide closed.

When he reopened them he was at Baker Street, propped up in his chair in the sitting room.

To his right a fire blazed brightly in the hearth, casting the otherwise darkened interior in flickering golds and trembling shadows. _Yet_ …while Sherlock sat there staring at it, his left leg was registering the heat rather than the right as it should have been. This wouldn’t do at all of course.

In a blink of an eye he was over in John’s chair, settling back into the lumpy yet cozy seat. Folding his long legs up towards his chest, the detective wrapped what was now his Belstaff around himself, rotating so he faced more of his front towards the fireplace. _Much better._

While his mind crafted a rather robust fire, nearly every aspect perfect from the snap of the wood to the scent of it charring, the flames themselves gave off little of the heat they would have realistically. That much was plain from the chill seeping into the tips of his ears and the blub of his nose. Sherlock scrunched his nostrils impulsively, feeling the delayed ache from nerves beginning to numb and burrowed his face further down into his high collar.

He let his eyes wander: music stand by the window behind his chair, bison skull looming on the wall, dining table obscured in piles of books and papers, several cardboard file boxes taking up the most space—Sherlock was mildly curious as to what his brain would supply inside had he opened them.

Temperature discrepancies aside, it was a pristine replica of 221B.

Why he could almost hear where John would be puttering in the kitchen, fixing them both a stiff drink to warm them up. Tumblers clanking against the countertop, the squeak of a cap being twisted from a bottle followed by the soft _glug_ of liquid pouring.

Frankly, Sherlock never did develop a palate for hard liquor. Not that he believed he was missing out for it. If anything alcoholic ever did pass his lips it was generally wine. Very old or very expensive. Preferably both.

Although to John’s merit, if Sherlock consented to imbibe something that didn’t come in a ‘ _fancy glass_ ’, it would be the best spirits the doctor had on hand. Admittedly rather good after one got passed the way it scorched down the throat just before hitting the stomach like a liquid load of bricks. He also couldn’t deny the effect it had afterwards… _absorbed into the blood stream through the small intestines, vessels spreading, skin flushing as heart rate and blood pressure increase. A runaway train heading to the Hypothalamus. The body loses the ability to shiver. Thus the illusion of warmth, a trick of biology and chemistry._

Some niggling Anderson-esc thought cropped up. Shrill and infuriating and _obvious_ in the way it reminded him how that was just a _fraction_ of the divine faux heat his body could feel if he just—

Sherlock’s features clenched, fingers curling inward so tightly his nails bit into his palms. The keenness of them digging had a dampening effect. Like steam venting from an over pressured pipe. Slowly he released them along with a wavering breath, smoothing his hands against the chair’s arms, letting the threadbare upholstery erase away the indents in his skin.

_John. John in the kitchen fixing us drinks._

Later would come tea if the detective remembered correctly. Which he did. Albeit such a trivial memory to keep stored when he was so quick to delete what was popularly considered ‘ _essential_ ’. Astrological arrangements, royal hierarchies, social protocols. Yet Sherlock could recall what took place each time the heat went out at the flat like it had happened yesterday.

A fire would be built midafternoon and kept tended and fed, either by John or himself. They’d slip out for lunch while the sun was still up and then John would cook dinner come evening, filling the kitchen with about as much warmth from the stove as he could. Sherlock meanwhile would haunt nearby until he was caught and John tried to put him to work peeling or chopping or stirring or watching things simmer while the doctor prepped something else.

 _“You want to eat. You help.”_ He’d command, usually curbing a smile as Sherlock would huff dramatically and bemoan but still do the thing he was appointed. Mostly to remain in the pleasant almost stifling humidity of the kitchen but also partially, _secretly_ , because he found John Watson in the act of preparing a complex dish utterly captivating.

John had a certain gracefulness about him when he cooked that he didn’t exhibit in his normal day to day. Not to say the man was stiff, more like _still_. Calm with a poise indicative of years of training and discipline. But set him in front of stove and a cutting board with a meal in mind and John _danced_. Figuratively speaking, of course.

He’d seen John actually dance. A sort of swingy swirly thing the doctor would evolve into after a few cups of Mrs. Hudson’s eggnog. One Sherlock suspected the alcohol content of rising just a wee bit more every year.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the large darkened window just beyond him, the outside blacker then it should have been. Then again he wasn’t _here_ to recreate the streets of London. He wondered however if the fairy lights were still up at the real Baker Street. Or at all. He could easily see Mrs. Hudson opting to visit her sister for the holidays and John…going to Harry’s? No. That had gone awful ( _As expected)_ last year.

John had returned home early Boxing Day morning, a day earlier then he was expected. Sherlock could clearly hear the doctor’s sulk before even seeing it: the slight pause in the stride—favoring the left leg, the heaviness in which his bag dropped onto the carpet. And then when he had looked up: the hesitancy to make eye contact and the curt greeting he’d received. Sherlock realized then John was waiting for the inevitable deduction, maybe a sarcastic comment about how swimmingly the weekend went. Waiting for the last dollop of aggravation on the already heaping pile of his holiday.

Instead he’d merely gave John a hum in return and turned back to his research, leaving the other man frozen in the sitting room until the doctor cleared his throat, picked up his bag, and headed up stairs. By the time John descended from his room Sherlock had just finished slipping on his coat, mentioning he was to stepping out for a bit and nodded over his shoulder to a mug of tea seeping on the kitchen table.

John had looked decidedly bewildered from the mug to the detective before fumbling through a thank you. Sherlock had waved it away as he looped his scarf round his neck, remarking that it was his Boxing Day gift to him. John had smiled at that, his mood lightening as they parted ways, even making a wisecrack about not getting Sherlock anything half as nice.

Maybe this year John had finally taken up the invitation from his mother and her new boyfriend ( _Richard, Roger, Robert, Reginald, something with an R—or was it a Q?_ ).

But where was John tonight? Out with friends? With a girlfriend? In a pub somewhere counting down the minutes to a new year with strangers? Surely not alone like he was. Surely. _Hopefully._

The detective’s gaze fell solemnly to his chair, noting how muted the leather surface looked in the firelight. In fact everything had a washed-out quality to it on a second passing, not quite as sharp. He tried to bring the dark filigreed borders around the burgundy tiles of the hearth into focus but the lines stayed muddied.

Maintaining the details didn’t matter really, he shouldn’t have been staying here for this long anyway. Too…detrimental.

Although doing so _did_ have a certain comicality to it; indulging in one harmful habit to stave off engaging in another. Funnier still was how simply getting high felt like the lesser of two evils.

_Danger nights._

Sherlock attempted to keep his mental self from recoiling. _Utter rubbish._

Ages ago some nameless ( _Deleted_ ) rehab therapist in a garish sweater vest and a futile comb-over had carved that gem during one of his mandatory sessions. One that horribly enough included his goblin of a brother. Though Mycroft had held the man with only a thinly vailed apathy, that phrase would apparently hound Sherlock for the rest of his life.

He even overheard John throw it around once or twice with the gravity of an old salt warning about monsters at sea.

_They say sometimes when the time is right he’ll slink out into the streets to shoot up!_

The detective scoffed.

And yet, he couldn’t remember the last time he had this unspoiled an opportunity. To get high without a single soul around to stop him. No brothers or detective inspectors or flatmates or landladies for miles. Just him.

Just him in some dilapidated room in the middle of Europe with 50 mg of the cleanest heroin he’d ever encountered. Just him slumped in this chair, or perhaps lain out on the tarnished wooden floor feeling so blissfully warm—too warm. Just him as his respiration dwindles and his vision tunnels—had he really become _that_ intolerant? Just him found days later—two at most, right in time for the smell to start.

Just him filed under an assumed name tucked inside a bag on a slab—would Mycroft come personally to claim his remains or would he order some minion because his brother was too—

“Embarrassed.” Mycroft’s voice droned across the way where he materialized, nose upturned and posture wooden in Sherlock’s chair. He was decked in one of his most hideous tweed suits, like a bespoke splotch of dried mustard. Infuriatingly still, Mycroft seemed completely unaffected by the cold with his hands out in the open and folded neatly in his lap.

“Really Sherlock…” His brother chided with an impish satisfaction. “…overdosing in a slum? I thought you hated repeating yourself.”

The detective’s eyes circled just above the horizon of his collar before they narrowed shrewdly. “ _Sorry_. Couldn’t find a nice opium den open this time of the century.”

Mycroft chuckled loftily, reaching out to the curved handle of his brolly that sat beside his chair like a loyal dog. His fingers wrapped around it, thumb rubbing along the very tip. “I’d hoped you were beyond these…inclinations by now.” He sighed.

“Hoped? Why would you?” Sherlock taunted in return, denying even his fabrication of a brother any scrap of shame. “I’ve only been clean for _fifteen years_.”

“Collectively.” Mycroft amended proudly, his oily smile widening as Sherlock’s face fell and the younger Holmes quickly turned his focus back to the hearth to stare sullenly at the flames.

Sherlock’s mouth tightened, his nostrils flaring as he tried to tamp down his budding anger. _Now_ was certainly not the time to lose control. And not because of bloody Mycroft.

“Ta for the reminder.” He remarked bitterly, then adding with mounting vitriol “Now if you wouldn’t mind _buggering off_ to whatever corner of my super-ego you crept out of, I’d rather toil without seeing _your_ face.”

“How ‘bout mine?”

Blanching, the detective’s attention snapped over to find John in Mycroft’s stead, something sharp and acrid cracking in his gut.

“You’re not _here_.” Sherlock bit out, his cheeks prickling as they tried to flush.

Much like his brother, John was dressed for warmer conditions, sporting his thin blue jumper with the tiny alternating stripes ( _Rarely wears it. Shame._ ) and a pair of dark well-worn jeans. Though despite the doctor’s relaxed appearance, even down to his sock-clad feet, John leveled Sherlock with a heavy expression. Somewhere between apprehension and disappointment.

John nodded a little. “Yeah…could of been.” He remarked thoughtfully.

“Go. Away.” The detective commanded, attempting to banish this new figment. But try as he might, enough the environment around them flickered and fuzzed; John remained steadfast where he sat.

“You about done there?” John cocked a brow as the sitting room returned to focus. “I can’t go. You won’t let me.” He frowned, appearing displeased with his own statement. “Well…technically you won’t let _you_.” The doctor corrected with a wince.

Sherlock gave a patronizing scoff and looked away.

“Besides.” John figured, so composed and sure it set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. “If you wanted this to stop… _you_ would of left already.” The detective said nothing in reply; his features becoming passive save for the minute twitch of his lower right eyelid.

Damn his brain. Sherlock reasoned it was out of shear exhaustion and the wine he consumed that night that his mind was being so _traitorous_. _Weak_. However, John— _not John_ —was most infuriatingly correct. He could just leave. And what was more preferable then? Sitting here in a fantasy with…with an _illusion_ or out there in squalor with… _it_.

Sherlock hugged his knees tighter under his coat as he felt his body begin to tremble, turtling himself as deeply as he could inside.

After a stretch of terse silence where the detective scowled at the shadowed bookshelves while John watched him, the former let out a long decompressing breath and leaned forward, shoulders rounding, elbows resting on his knees. “What are you doing Sherlock?” He asked, sounding softer but weary for it.

“Apparently conversing with _myself_.” Sherlock spat back, still glaring at the shelves.

“I mean with that.” John sighed again, motioning to the side table by his own armchair. Where usually there sat a dreadful paperback or that morning’s paper was the small bag of powder. Sherlock eyes widened at its sudden presence, entranced for a moment by firelight shining gold and splendid on the plastic surface. His mouth opened then shut, any semblance of a reply lost before it even had a chance to form.

He wasn’t too sure what he was going to do with that just yet.

It was a _gift_ after all.

Sherlock’s gamble at the track that day with Mahir had paid off for them both. Though in distinctly different ways. Tiryaki had continued to humor him, inquiring which horses he _did_ _like_ after Sherlock criticized the man’s second choice:

_“The jockey is clearly ill. That’s the seventh time he’s sneezed in the last fifteen minutes. Not to mention the bulging just above his left shirt cuff where he’s been stuffing his used tissues.”_

Out of the four horses Sherlock picked to win, three of them placed exactly where he predicted. The fourth was admittedly a long shot by him—sturdy mare but had a bit of a limp that morning, nothing that would keep her from racing but she ended up placing sixth. Regardless, with the other three placing as they did, Tiryaki had not only made back everything he lost that day, but doubled it.

Things had gone surprisingly quickly from there.

On Wednesday Mahir won every single bet he made with the keen advice of his new acquaintance.

By the weekend he’d invited Sherlock out to dinner for New Years Eve.

Another rented suit and a private car sent to a location the detective specified—a luxury apartment complex no one batted an eye to see him loitering outside of, found Sherlock at a posh restaurant in Beyoğlu.

Over absurdly expensive entrees and wine they discussed many things. Sherlock’s time in Turkey thus far, his business ( _investments_ ), Atlantis Pharmaceutical’s recent acquisitions, and surprisingly enough…chemistry.

Apparently Mahir didn’t just peddle medicines, he invented them. And his knowledge was more than impressive. Despite being there for the sole purpose of ruining the man, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a certain kinship with someone who loved the field as much as he did.

“There’s something…beautiful about compounds.” Mahir had remarked thoughtfully at the winding down of their dinner, swirling the last remnants of wine in his glass before downing it. “Especially when it comes to human chemistry.”

“I’m rather obsessed with it you see.” He’d gone on to say, motioning for the waiter to refresh his drink half full. “To me, chemistry is the key to unlocking the full potential of the human body. With it we can impede disease, cure illness, correct defects, enhance the very _functions_ of the brain.”

“Or dampen them.” Sherlock interjected with a coy smile, declining as the waiter made to top off his wine, his second that night though he’d been nursing it for the past hour.

“Precisely.” Mahir mused as he raised his glass to his lips. “If one desires that sort of—quiet.” He shrugged and took a long sip.

Sherlock watched as Tiryaki slowly placed his glass back down onto the table and looked back up at him, an unspoken question hanging in the ether between them, gathering static so rapidly it bit at Sherlock’s skin.

The detective remained relaxed even as proposed. “And if one _did_ desire it?”—

Mahir simply smiled and motioned for the check.

And there it was…pure, perfect. As priceless and beautiful as a hand-made instrument or a century old painting. That little bag wasn’t just a masterwork of chemical craftsmanship it was an entrance. A doorway to everything he buried years ago and spent every day afterwards denying. How stupid he’d been to think he could get this close and not _feel_ anything. Even now his veins were crawling with the dormant itch of a lifetime ago.

Mahir must have sensed that when he gave it to him. The knowing smile of one addict to another as he slipped a white envelop into Sherlock’s hand along with a business card. _An invitation._ If he survived to RSVP—

He could, he could still _do_ this. Just a little would be fine. Obviously he couldn’t use the same amount as he once could, that would be suicide. _That_ would be stupid. But if he did just a little, just a bit…he could still see this through. He could get closer to Tiryaki enough to see his entire bloody chemistry set—

Realizing he’d been holding his breath only as his lungs began to burn, Sherlock tore his gaze away from the heroin with a breathy gasp. He blinked against wavering vision, seeing the fire still burning in the hearth, that he was still deep in his mind palace’s recreation of 221B. _John._

Sherlock glanced over to find John remained where he was. And though the doctor elected not to speak, his disapproval was clear enough.

“Oh please what do _you_ care?” Sherlock jeered heatedly, drawing himself out a little from his Belstaff fortress. “You’re just a construct! A personified conscience my mind’s created for me to heed. Go rattle your chains somewhere else.” The detective jerked his head towards nowhere in particular. “I don’t… _need_ you.” Although there was a constant chill on his face, Sherlock could feel a sticky film of sweat forming on his forehead and an uncontainable shiver spike through him, lighting up along his spine like a current.

John sat up himself, rallying as his apathy transmuted into anger. “Because you daft arse, you’re better than _that_.” He pressed, aiming an accusing finger at the bag.

“ _I am_ _that_.” Growled Sherlock.

“Christ— _fine_ , _I_ think you’re better than that.” The doctor contested, turning his pointing towards himself.

“You think I’m dead!” Sherlock bellowed. For a moment both men seemed dazed by the announcement before they were overcast by something heavy and reluctant. Sherlock averted his eyes from John’s to the carpet between them, bowing his head and pulling a hand out to run through unkempt hair, gripping it towards the back to stop the twitching in his fingers.

John pursed his lips, peering up at the mantle, his attention stopping on the skull observing over them. “I do…and if you put that—fucking poison in your veins you’re gonna prove me right.” He replied with a grave countenance at the detective.

Despite the gravity of the conversation, how drained he was with it—with this entire seemingly endless night, Sherlock couldn’t stop a bemused little smile from spreading. “Can’t have that.” He murmured to himself, the taut grip at his scalp easing. Slowly he smoothed his hand down to rest on the back of his neck, relishing the transference of heat between the two plains of skin.

When he finally did peer back up at John through his lashes, he found him smirking too and for the first time Sherlock noted just how tangible the doctor appeared. Finer in detail than anything else around them. Every line, every wrinkle from a lifetime of laughter and struggle etched over John’s face, flushed and so very h—

 _No_. John wasn’t here.

John was miles away from him.

And yet…if Sherlock were to stand, to walk the short span between them and just… _touch_ him. Feel the weight of him, the solidity of muscle, the softness of fat, the smoothness of skin, the tickle of fine hairs beneath his fingertips as he traced over John’s hands and face and throat—

 _Speculative._ All theorized because he’d never touched John like that.

Sure they’d made regular contact. The very first was a handshake ages ago, then accidentally—fingers brushing as things passed between them: phones, mugs, evidence. Grabbing John by the arm or the shoulders to drag him out of danger or pull him towards it.

Any prolonged, intentional exposure were the times they—( _Mostly me_ )—required medical attention. When an injury fell between going to the A&E and shrugging it off. But those touches were clinical. Sewing stitches or applying butterfly sutures, checking throats and wrists for pulses or brows for fever. The rare instances John couldn’t treat himself had left Sherlock too focused on being accurate. There was no place for explorative, _lingering_ touches. No reason for it. No need.

Now however, as Sherlock stared at all of John’s facets, he found himself needing to.

 _Wanting_ to.

Wanting to make him real so he could memorize the exact engagements of muscle for all of John’s various expressions. Chart the growth patterns of stubble around his mouth and along his jaw at different times of the day. Learn the architecture of alar crease and ala nasi of John’s nose, of the philtrum just above his upper lip.

Why, John Watson was a _lifetime_ of study just waiting to be—

There was that vibrant ache throughout his torso again. Shocking this time, as if hands had reached inside him and twisted Sherlock’s core, his organs, like one would ring water from a wet towel. Tighter and tighter until he had to press himself back upright in the armchair, his eyes squeezing shut. He was so fixated on trying to quell the sensation that Sherlock nearly missed the soft words uttered from across the room.

“Call me.”

The detective inhaled sharply then fixed John with an affronted sort of bewilderment. “No.” His dismissal rough but no less fervent.

“ _Call me_.” John urged.

“I _can’t_.” Sherlock snarled, his eyes flaring wide.

“Sure you can. That burner you’ve got in your pocket’s good for at least four more hours.” He contested, shifting in Sherlock’s chair, the leather creaking under his movement. “Plenty of time.” John added with a smirk.

“You’re probably _asleep_.” The detective countered, but it lacked the bite he intended it to. He swore he wouldn’t ring John again. Not after the first and consequently last call he made some three months prior. Those 17.6 seconds Sherlock had scrutinized over innumerable times since.

John considered his hands where they picked idly at one another in his lap, his expression growing wistful. “It’s New Year’s Day Sherlock. My first one with you gone. What do you think I’m doing right now?”

John caught his gaze.

“Call me.”

Like a bubble bursting from the thinness of its own delicate form, Sherlock was suddenly staring at a corner of stained chipping paint once more, any placebo gain of comfort exploding with it.

At some point the radiator had cut out, whatever heat it dispersed into the room was quickly receding. Sherlock shivered anew, unfurling stiff limbs from underneath his parka and slipped a hand into one of its deep inner pockets. He produced an archaic looking mobile phone, the cheap plastic warm in his hand. As depressing as it was promising.

As he glared at it, John’s voice grew ever indistinct like a fading dream. He didn’t hear the doctor’s last words so much as he felt their pull. Much like he felt the pull of the heroin still sitting pleasantly nearby. How much more apparent it was now that he was outside his head and in the reality of his situation.

Fighting the urge to look at it, Sherlock quickly flipped opened the mobile and dialed, punching the digits so hastily he wasn’t exactly sure if he’d gotten the combination right. He remembered to hit the mute button just as the first purr sounded, the detective’s breath wavering into the mic as he listen to it ring. He nearly laughed at the thought of John answering to hear some loon breathing heavily in his ear.

If he answered at all.

“Pick up.” Sherlock whispered, his bottom jaw beginning to tremble. He gave a fervent lick over his bottom lip, casting his eyes upward then closed. The line kept ringing.

“Please pick up…”

And then. It did.

 

.... .- .--. .--. -.-- / -. . .-- / -.-- . .- .-. / .--- --- .... -.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had intended to dabble a little with Sherlock's time away and just show a bit of what he was up to. I had a few next destinations for him going along with John's phone calls, Turkey being one of them. After doing research I found out one of the major crime problems over there is heroin production and selling. And that just seemed too perfect to not have Sherlock deal with. And thus, Sherlock went to Turkey and here we are lol.
> 
> Bonus info: Mahir ("Skilled" in Arabic) Tiryaki ("Addict" in Turkish).
> 
> I hope this wasn't boring as hell. I worry sometimes about this story's pace and if it's interesting. I think it is at points but I'm not a reader, I'm writing it. My perception is skewed. I wish sometimes I could wipe my memory of typing it and read it with a fresh perspective.
> 
> As always if you have any feedback don't hesitate to comment down below, I love hearing everything and anything. Thoughts, predictions, things you like, things you don't like, things you want to see, things you don't want to see, how you're doing today, etc. 
> 
>  
> 
> Your handy dandy Morse Code translator: http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html


	8. Chapter 8

_“Happy new year John…”_

 

**== 24 th of January 2012 several miles outside London 10:06 am ====**

 

Midmorning sun streamed through the tall vaulted windows at Mycroft’s back as he sat at the head of a long wooden table picking over a late breakfast. The grand sitting room of his family’s ancestral home was near silent, the methodic ticking of a clock the only thing to break it.

Laid out before him was an assortment of silver and porcelain serving dishes, covered. To the left of his plate was a half drunk cup of tea, to the right an opened manila folder containing several documents written in Japanese and a handful of black and white surveillance photos. The top most depicted a sharply dressed young woman getting into a private car from across a busy intersection.

Mycroft had paused with a chunk of egg pierced on his fork, frowning deeply at whatever was written on the documents when he heard the soft click of heels approaching. Mycroft pulled his attention away from the dossier as Anthea entered, curious to see the small package she held in her hand.

“This arrived for you.” She informed him, holding the parcel at an angle for a better vantage.

The package itself was rather crude but adequate enough to pass postal regulations—wrapped in brown paper and trussed in a course hemp twine. Mycroft’s eyes swept over the front, noting right from the start the lack of a return address. However the stamps adorning it sent an ill rift through him as they clearly originated from Turkey.

“We’ve had it inspected, but I can send it off again if you’d like.” The PA added.

Most packages of any size—unless verbally cleared by him—were thoroughly scanned before they even came within radius of him, let alone the same room. And none save for mail from his immediate family was ever sent to _this_ address directly.

After gazing at it a moment more, he gave a declining hum. “That’s quite alright, thank you.” He replied with a quaint smile, setting down his fork and holding his hand out for the parcel.

As soon as Anthea left however, Mycroft’s pleasantness collapsed. Replaced with an air of unease as he inspected the package closer. The forwarding address was scrolled with a cheap biro based on the inconstancies of the strokes—there were numerous spots where the ink had failed to be applied to the paper. The handwriting meanwhile, though virtually unrecognizable had an unmistakable familiarity to it when it came to the letter ‘S’.

He _taught_ those S’s.

Turning it this way and that, Mycroft ran a thumb over the tight knot of twine then brought the package under his nose for a quick sniff or two.

His eyes narrowed and without further wait, worked the string apart and ripped open the back seams, careful to keep the front of the wrapping intact. As the paper fell away, Mycroft was intrigued to find his sense of smell hadn’t fooled him and a tin of Turkish tea lay beneath.

The tin itself was simple, rectangular in shape with a hinged lid, decorated in thin vertical stripes of alternating red and a gold logo reading: ‘Çaykur’ below that in white print: ‘Tiryaki Çay’.

Mycroft’s ears perked and his pulse lurched. Cautiously he pushed on the edge of the metal lid, popping it open to be greeted by the aroma of fine dry leaves, earthy and rich and the edge of something pale peeking out near the hinge. Upon opening the can fully, he found a crude square of paper fitted into the underside of the lid.

Setting the tin down, Mycroft plucked it out and unfolded it. The murky colored paper being enclosed for so long had taken on the smell of the tea below it, the scent wafting pleasingly as Mycroft read the brief message within:

_Found this, thought you might like it._

_Meşe Cd. No: 10,  
16140 Bursa, Turkey_

Though he was undoubtedly relieved, Mycroft recognized the broader indications as he read the note again. The raggedness of Sherlock’s handwriting went beyond just the use of a disposable pen. Troubled as that made him, his little brother’s success was to be celebrated. Mycroft brought the tin to his nose once more, a smile spreading as he inhaled.

 

**== 23 th of June 2012 Durham UK 7:42 am ====**

 

When John woke he did so alone, facing a vacant space and an indent in the pillow next to his. So subtle that it almost looked like the impression wasn’t there at all.

He rose up on one elbow, taking in his surroundings with scratchy eyes to see it equally as empty. Quiet but for the muffled din of traffic and people passing outside, filtering in through the closed window.

John stared at the window curiously. He didn’t remember shutting it.

Granted, after the hour or so he spent huddled in the bathroom, John had exited so mentally and emotionally exhausted he’d switched to autopilot. His only goal then was to go to sleep and he very well could have closed the window without knowing it.

He did however recall the internal debate on where he should sleep. Option A was of course alongside his _formerly dead utter bastard of a best friend_ while Option B was taking the two cushy chairs near the fireplace and bridging himself across them. Neither prospect seemed particularly appealing, but short of curling up on the floor, which he was very close to doing, John eventually caved and shuffled over to the other side of the— _thankfully_ —large bed.

Sherlock had rolled away in his sleep and John had done the same, putting his back and enough distance between them before going any further meant falling off the bed. The very last thing he remembered was the sound of gentle snoring behind him.

With a defeated sigh, John plopped back down and rubbed a hand over his face, his stubble grating against his palm.

What a fool he’d been. All this time, all the grief and guilt and for what? The sake of some _case_?

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had vanished suddenly and without a smidgen of context. Remaining completely out of contact with anyone only to return days later (or the one time after a week and a half. John had threatened to move out for that) without so much as a sorry and generally with little to no explanation.

Or—which was somehow remarkably worse—when Sherlock _did_ tell him about his little escapades and then had the gall to strop off when John wasn’t equally as enthused. Especially when he’d then inform the detective in as many colorful phrases as possible, that he can’t just run off like that without letting John at least know _where_.

But this—this went beyond Sherlock trapesing off to who the hell knew where for a couple of days. This was unbelievably cruel. This was thoughtless. This was…very Sherlock wasn’t it?

Preferring to be alone. Keeping everyone close to him at arm’s length. Barely cognizant to the weight of his actions—no…no Sherlock was more aware than that. A man who could read someone’s life story from the scars on their hands to the perfume they wore knows how people think. How to make them react how he needed them to…

Oh how they reacted. And not just John either. What about Mrs. Hudson, Greg, or Molly? Each one of them was hurt by Sherlock’s loss. Each one grieved, were still grieving in fact.

These people who’d trusted him, who’d saw something greater in him that few bothered to see. People that supported Sherlock through good and bad. People who were proud of him. People who _cared_ for him—

John let his hand fall from his face, shutting his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another, letting each out more measured then the last. He took some solace in the dark claret behind his lids as he tried to calm down.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing of all was the undeniable part of him that was _thankful_. So immeasurably and agonizingly thankful that Sherlock was alive. A massive, asinine, prick mind you.

But a _living_ one.

This was doing him no good. He needed to do something. _Anything_ but lay here and fester.

It was hunger that ended up hauling John from the bed, deciding his best course of action was to take a shower and pop downstairs to the tavern for a cup of coffee. He didn’t expect the caffeine would give him any insight into this complete arsebucket of a situation, but he’d at least have a clearer head and something in his stomach.

As he passed the bedside table on the way to the bath, John grabbed his phone to check if he had any notifications. But as the doctor unlocked his screen he found the internet browser was opened and navigated to the Durham train website, specifically the schedule for the Virgin East Coast line back to London. The next train appeared to be leaving at noon.

Scowling, he closed the browser window only to have the next thing to pop up on the screen be the mobile’s virtual notepad. Specifically a new note still in editing mode.

 _‘Room’s yours till Sunday’_ , where the only words there.

John promptly deleted it.

 

.--- --- .... -. / .-- .- - ... --- -. /

 

 

The remainder of June thankfully came and went without incident. John returned to work that following Tuesday and made short work of Sarah’s friendly interrogation about the weekend when she cornered him in the clinic’s tiny brake room by the coffee machine.

John had stared down into his cup, watching the black liquid steam as he tried to craft an answer. _Beyond expectation? Infuriating? Devastating? Confusing? The best and worst thing to have happened in a while_ —where some of the top contenders. Though— _Slept in bed with a ghost_ —had a nice tabloid feel to it.

He settled with: _“Oh…fine.”_ and followed it up with a similarly lackluster _“It was good. Informative.”_ If Sarah’s grimacing smile was any clue, she took the answer at face value and decided not to push him for any more details.

The medical convention never existed; much to John’s expectancy after a quick call to the center confirmed it. Nor could he find anything about a Dr. Altamont listed anywhere. All fabricated for the sake of getting him there. Upon further reflection, Durham was a perfect place for a secret reunion. Remote, easily accessible by train, car, hell there was enough open land out there you could probably have come in by helicopter if you had the means. And he bloody well knew a certain person who had them.

Perhaps the only legitimate factor was the room had in fact been paid through the weekend, though John checked out that Saturday afternoon. He was also a little shocked to find a ticket back to London waiting for him at the train station.

Mrs. Hudson—surprised to see him home so soon, invited John for dinner with a delicious shepherd’s pie. He accepted a storage bowl of it with the excuse of being dead knackered from his trip and spent the rest of the weekend burrowed in the flat trying very hard not to burn through half a bottle of whiskey.

He thought a lot. Couldn’t help it really. Even after two days John still felt like he was reeling. So many questions raised only to birth more questions. All without viable answers. And despite how furious he was with Sherlock, there was an emergent twang of regret at turning the detective away.

Rather odd feeling that. Wanting to see someone and never wanting to see them again at the same time.

A week passed. Then another, completely and blessedly uneventful…no calls, no visits—save for having Greg over twice. One of those times for John's birthday when Lestrade insisted on taking him out to dinner.

John took down the map of plotted points, cleared the call log on his mobile, and did the most clear-cut thing he could…put Sherlock Holmes in the furthest corner of his mind. Tucked away like boxes in a loft.

And it worked…for a while.

It worked up until John spotted a black blob creep into his peripheral as he made his way to the clinic one morning, the weather mild for mid July, the promise of rain thick in the air. He heard the purr of the car easing to a crawl to match his stride, tires crunching against loose gravel.

John had half a mind to ignore it, to let that sedan follow him all the way to the tube. What the hell did Mycroft want with him? He hadn't received any unknown calls since May and they weren’t on speaking terms last time John checked and that certainly extended to stalking him in a bloody towncar. He wondered then if this was just some attempt to scare him, to test his resolve about keeping Sherlock’s status a secret. John felt his hackles rising with every step.

Though he was categorically livid, John wasn’t about to possibly put Sherlock’s life in danger for the sake of gossip or therapy or revenge or whatever petty thing Mycroft was probably assuming of him.

As the indignation curdled in John’s stomach he walked several feet more before halting and turning sharply, catching his own stony reflection in the car’s back window. Before the doctor could act, the window began to ease down, revealing no one on the other side.

Heaving a sigh, John grit his teeth and bent over. The change in angle bringing Mycroft into view on the far side of the back seat. As they locked eyes, the elder Holmes smiled equably.

“You’re looking well John.” Mycroft cooed.

John had almost forgotten how condescending being cordial sounded coming out of that man’s mouth. A year ago he would have found it amusing. Maybe cracked a joke, maybe netted a little laugh or a smile out of Sherlock for it. Now John fought to keep his composure out of shear respect for himself.

“I’m glad I caught you. I thought we could talk for a bit.” Mycroft suggested, followed promptly by the pop of the car’s locks flicking over, something equally presumptuous snaking over his features as he cocked his head.

“Well you thought wrong.” John replied with a taut smile and a nod, implying as much _fuck off_ as he could without outright saying it.

“ _I_ _think_ what I have to say might interest you.” Mycroft interjected, raising an eyebrow.

John hummed, glancing off briefly towards the pavement to his right, still several blocks away from the tube station. “Highly doubt that.”

Mycroft sighed through his nose, the agreeable charade melting into something that John was more acquainted with and at this point preferred. “I must insist.”

“Or what?” The doctor’s brows arched, his bottom lip protruding in mock inquisitiveness. “You know this doesn’t exactly…inspire intimidation.” He waved a hand vaguely at the car for emphasis before clasping both behind his back, much to Mycroft’s chagrin.

Casting his gaze to his lap, Mycroft took deep breath, his jaw firming. All the while John glared, morbidly curious as to what leverage would be used against him. His job at the clinic? The flat? Mycroft knew better by now than to threaten Mrs. Hudson. _Ever_.

However what followed wasn’t a threat at all but, “ _Please_.” After a second returning John’s glare with a quiet pensiveness.

Never in all his time knowing him, had John ever heard Mycroft Holmes utter the word please before. To _anyone_.

Peering down at his shoes, John steadied himself and reached for the door handle. Just as he was about to get in, the car’s driver—a broad shouldered fellow with an equally broad chin and a snubbed nose, all tailored suit and frown—hopped out. The doctor gave him a puzzled look before sinking inside, both back passenger and driver doors closing nearly simultaneously.

John looked around the confines of the car, discovering they were essentially now alone. It hadn’t struck him until just then what a rare occurrence this really was. Any time previously that John was summoned into Mycroft’s presence, it had been through one of his PAs. Mainly Anthea—or whatever her actual name was. Really the only other times he’d seen the man travel personally was to pay a visit to Sherlock.

“If you’d mind raising your window.” Mycroft nodded, gesturing to put it up with a flick of his wrist.

Complying, John pulled at the little switch on the door’s armrest, shutting it with a gentle buzz and creating a remarkably silent pocket within the cabin. Though he could feel the recirculated air flowing, John couldn’t hear it. Nor the engine running for that matter save for a minute vibration underneath him. John suspected it might be a short conversation since the car was left on. Mycroft didn’t seem like a man to waste petrol with idling.

John watched on, perplexity replacing apprehension as Mycroft leaned and dug a hand into the pocket of his grey tailored trousers. From it he drew out a mobile phone and placed it on the tan leather seat between them. After depositing the device, Mycroft laced his fingers on his thigh, appraising John as the doctor inspected it dubiously.

The phone was brand new and high-end from what he could tell. Must have cost at least several hundred quid and wasn’t marked by any specific carrier. So sleek it made his own mobile look like a brick with a little screen. None of this explained Mycroft’s intentions, leaving John to ask the painfully obvious.

“A phone?”

“A peace offering.” Mycroft returned casually if not cryptically.

“Or an invitation…depending on how you look at it.” He added, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he gave John nothing short of a smarmy grin.

“An invi—” The doctor started just before realization hit him. “ _Oh_ —oh that’s just _rich_. He—” John caught himself, tamping down his indignation before he slipped up. After a shaky breath he squared his shoulders, speaking low and bitten. “If you seriously expect after the hell I went through to just _turn_ the other cheek and—”

“John no one is forcing your hand.” Mycroft’s smile fell with a sigh as he shifted in his seat, stretching his long legs as far forward as they could. The backseat of the sedan was spacious, but for a man of Mycroft’s height, it afforded little in the way of extra leg room.

“Whether you take this opportunity or not is _your_ choice.” He gazed out his window, taking in the passing cars through the tinted glass.

“ _But_ …since Sherlock is hell-bent on continuing these little _chats_ with you, I insisted he at least do it on a secure line.” Mycroft continued, shocking John with the mention of his brother so openly.

John looked down at the mobile, something about the word secure sent up a red flag in his mind. A second later it clicked. “You mean _monitored_.” He accused. Not surprising, what was another tab on him to Mr. British Government?

“I mean untraceable.” Mycroft volleyed back, looking positively affronted. “Trust me when I say I have zero interest in listening in on whatever it is you two gab about.” He spat with enough distain that John actually believed him.

At a loss for a reply, John stared at the head rest just ahead of him, his hands clenched in his lap. Christ, he wasn’t actually considering this was he? What good would it do? There was so much scar tissue, so much mire surrounding his relationship with Sherlock now that how could accepting be anything but welcoming disaster?

And all the while John floundered, he could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, piercing, judiciously peeling back the edges of the doctor’s every expression, the tightness of his frame, the twitch of his fingers, the set of his jaw. John might as well have been speaking his thoughts out loud.

“Did Sherlock ever tell you _why_ he jumped?” Mycroft asked suddenly, though his tone was thoughtful; it held certain solemnness about it. John glanced over, a swell of remorse washing over him as their eyes met.

“No…I uh—I didn’t exactly let him.” He admitted.

“Then perhaps you should.” The elder Holmes remarked quietly as he reached out and gingerly picked up the phone, holding it out towards John.

John’s eyes trailed down to the device. He hesitated, something rebelling in him. Something seething, angry. Like Stage 2 had left the band and was striking up a solo career now that John had no reason to grieve.

“Allow him that—” Mycroft imparted, his expression becoming unreadable. “—at the very least.”

 

.. ... / .. -. /

 

“Do you want to call him?”

John blinked sharply as his stomach plummeted into his feet. He took a beat to inventory his surroundings, remembered he was standing behind the front desk of the clinic’s waiting room and then peered down at Clair, the nurse working reception that day. Clair was looking back up at him with an open expectation, pen poised over a slip of paper.

 _Shit._ “Uh—good question…” John backpedaled, crossing his arms over his chest in thought. “Great question…” He stalled.

“Well—” Clair began; fortunately for John completely unaware of the one-sided conversation she’d been apparently having with him for who knew how long. “I could try to fit Mr. Reese in sometime this week so you can discuss his test results…but the schedule’s pretty tight.” She sighed, reaching over and tapping a few keys on her computer to pull up the appointment log.

Thank god for small favors. “No, that’s alright—I’ll give him ring. Sure he’s anxious for some good news yeah?” John shot her a wink and stepped away, heading over to scheduling board while he silently cursed himself.

He’d been staring at—or more like staring through—a calendar on the wall near the reception desk. Something about July’s image: a shot taken from the edge of some beach of smooth creamy sand, large cresting waves and the tiny specks of surfers riding them filled the horizon line. The depicted sky just beginning the transition from late afternoon to dusk as one lone surfer in the foreground walked towards the sea, board tucked under his arm and skin tanned where it peaked out of his wetsuit from countless hours out on the water. Maybe it was the man’s tall sinewy figure, maybe it was the damp but subtle wave to his sun-bleached hair…it had reminded him so much of—

Putting a stop to what would most likely be a destructive train of thought, John focused in on the dry erase board in front of him, searching for his name scrawled in bright blue ink. There’d been a rearrangement of shifts towards the end of that week, Sarah scrambling to cover gaps as one of their doctors was being called away on urgent family matters and another had gone on holiday.

He’d just spotted his shift Thursday shift had been moved to Friday when there was a dull buzzing sound.

John went stiff, a hand shooting down to feel at his right pocket. He heard the hum again but felt no corresponding vibration. Hearing sudden movement, John raked over his shoulder to see Clair digging into her purse tucked under the desk. After a second or two of rustling through the contents and another louder buzz, Clair pulled out a small purple mobile phone. She took in who was calling and then promptly rejected it.

Upon seeing John was looking at her from the corner of her vision, Clair glanced up. “Wrong number.” She shrugged and went back to her work.

John turned away and squeezed his eyes shut, the fingers still lingering by his right pocket curled tightly into his palm. This was ridiculous…he was _not_ going to be tormented by a bloody _phone_ like in some B-grade horror film. The doctor drew his hand away from his side, resolving to stash what was hiding in there in his locker for the rest of the day. Out of sight and with any luck, out of mind.

It would have to wait though, before he’d zoned out John did recall Clair informing him that his next appointment was prepped and ready for him in Exam 7 and he was already close to running late as it was.

The doctor made his way down the hall, passing Sarah’s office and several examination rooms, trying to ignore the foreign weight at his hip with each step and simultaneously kicking himself for not just leaving the stupid thing with this his stuff when he clocked in that morning.

It wasn’t like Sherlock was going to ring him in the middle of the day. He’d only done that once back in May and besides, even if he did, John wasn’t obligated to pick up. He would have to eventually; no question about that. But to be quite honest, John wasn’t sure if he was any more prepared to hear the detective’s reason then he was that night in Durham.

John strode up to Exam 7, plucking the medical file out of the holder attached to the back of the door. Flipping the folder open, he took a quick perusal of its contents—female, late thirties, hand injury, first time patient at this clinic—which meant no prior medical records on file. He gave a warning knock on the door and waited his customary three or four seconds before opening it.

As John entered the examination room, he was greeted by a short woman with a pleasant face, though at seeing him her smile was more reluctant than happy. Understandable when John glanced down to the hand cradled protectively in her lap.

She had several gauze wadded in her fist, discarded in the bin next to her was a formerly powder blue handkerchief. John surmised it must have been wound round her injury; the fabric was twisted, stiff and ruddy with dried blood.

“Afternoon Ms. Morstan.” He introduced himself, coming forward.

“Mary.” She requested, taking his offered hand in a firmer shake then he’d expected.

“Mary.” John nodded, sweeping over to desk along the far wall. “I’m Dr. Watson.” He plopped the open medical file down before sitting on a nearby rolling stool.

He drew a pen from his pocket, clicking it in. “So how did you injure your hand?"

“A bit idiotic…” Mary huffed. “I volunteer over at the Whitechapel Mission.”

John glanced up from the notes he was writing. “I’m familiar…are you—saying a homeless person cut you?” He frowned.

Mary’s blue eyes widened. “Oh—no. _I_ cut me.” She chuckled lightly. “I was preparing sandwiches for today’s lunch and…had a run in with a disgruntled baguette.” Ms. Morstan rolled her eyes and her cheeks warmed, obviously embarrassed by what she considered an easily avoidable mishap. “I should have been more careful.” Mary confided with a sigh.

John’s expression softened, jotting that down. “Well don’t beat yourself up about it too much. Happens all the time.” He remarked coyly with a little shrug.

“Just yesterday I had a patient come in who was stabbed by an avocado.” John mused dryly; licking over his lips as Mary snorted with laughter then gave a guilty groan for doing so. She looked over at him, holding John’s gaze as a small but fond smile inched across her face and the doctor found himself returning it.

 _You’re flirting. You’re flirting with a patient. More than a bit not good._ John’s mind was quick to interject. He cleared his throat forcefully and sobered, getting a smirk from Ms. Morstan. One that if John hadn’t been in such risky territory already would have appeared to say ‘ _I don’t mind’._

“How about we take a look at that hand.” John briskly plucked a pair of latex gloves from a box sitting nearby, pulling them on as he rolled over towards the examination table Mary sat across. As he stopped a few inches from her knees, John reached out carefully and took her hand in his, gently pulling the gauze away to reveal a two and a half inch slice in the center of her palm.

He tilted it slowly this way and that, inspecting the wound as best he could through the caked blood. The cut was deeper near the edge of Mary’s palm, getting thinner as it ran towards her thumb. Leading John to believe the blade got caught up in the bread, when she put extra force to move it, the knife had punched forward then up. Luckily it hadn’t pierced too deeply, only nicking a few of the smaller veins and not a major artery or worse, tendons.

“Might need a stitch or two.” He said regretfully.

“ _Bugger_.” Mary spat, then grimaced out a “Sorry” as she tucked a wayward strand of short blonde hair back behind her ear. “I knew it…just with the depth of the laceration; I didn’t think I could get away with butterflies.” She sighed again, disappointed with herself.

“You sound like you’ve got some medical knowledge.” John suggested as he rolled over to a set of drawers, opening a few to fetch the supplies he needed for the sutures. With a little careful spacing on his part, he could close up the worst of it with about three stitches. The rest could be held closed with the butterfly-style sutures that Mary had alluded to.

“Oh…I’d mentioned it to the nurse, but I’m one myself.” She replied. “Just moved here actually.”

John looked over to her, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “And your first stop was volunteering at a homeless shelter?”

“Well…” Mary nibbled a bit on her lower lip, pink and lightly shiny with gloss. “Finding work’s been a bit of a trial and—I’m not much for sitting around.” She said confidently.

John felt the need to stare again, barely curbing it. “Right—let’s, let’s get you patched up.” He announced, closing the last drawer and coming back over. John pulled a standing metal tray to him, arranging his supplies out over it and doing a quick double check that he had everything.

He took Mary’s hand back in his, warmth passing through the latex of his gloves and the smell of faint, flowery perfume teased under John’s nose.

 

 

-.. .- -. --. . .-. .-.-.-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I purposely left it ambiguous if Sherlock did or didn't use while he was in Turkey because I wanted the reader to decide. Do you think he strayed? Do you think John's influence was enough to keep him straight? 
> 
> Also! The tea I mentioned Mycroft getting actually [exists](http://www.caykur.gov.tr/Fyukle/%5B332931096%5Dtirkyaki.jpg). Planned? Perhaps. Stupid luck? Perhaps. Not in a awesome tin sadly but, author's license. 
> 
> And don't forget the handy-dandy Morse code translator [Here](http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html) just copy and paste the bits you find between story sections to find out what this chapter's secret message is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY!  
> So funny story…I was under the impression that shorter chapters would be quicker to write. I was wrong. So very wrong. Especially when you get half way through and then decide to pull the content for a later chapter and have to come up with something new. My apologies for my terrible updating on this story. But I promise it will get all up here. In the meantime, enjoy a new chapter!

 

 

The aroma of onions beginning to fry in perhaps just a smattering too much butter made John’s mouth water. Always had. He’d just dumped the _mostly_ uniformly diced lot into a large pan, stirring them round as they popped and hissed to coat them fully.

His mum had taught him the key to a perfectly caramelized onion was commitment. You couldn’t just drop them in and walk away; you had to have time, dedication, and above all—the right thing to pair them with. Whether that be a quality Italian sausage and some peppers, or in John’s case this evening…a pile of pierogis.

When or where his mum had picked up the knack for the Polish dish, he’d never know, but when John came home from a long day at school to the lovely smell of cooking onions he knew it was going to be an excellent night.

His only qualm tonight was in his use of frozen pierogis instead of the from-scratch ones like his mum would craft. But with a healthy glob of sour cream, John could certainly pretend they were.

John found himself a little giddy in anticipation. The sleeves of his green button down crammed up to his elbows, tea towel slung over one shoulder, spatula in one hand and spreading a generous pinch salt with the other.

It felt like ages since he’d done this. Actually cooked a meal for himself rather than mooching off the graciousness of Mrs. Hudson or quarrying his dinner from a brown paper bag. Neither of which he particularly opposed. However there was a certain level of pride gained from taking a bunch of simple ingredients and crafting something grander out of them.

In fact, some of John’s fondest childhood memories were helping his mum in the kitchen—making dinner like this or a weekend lunch, and unquestionably whenever there was any variety of baking involved.

Harry never developed a taste for the culinary like he did. She’d flit in and out while they cooked, sniping a cherry tomato or slice of mushroom over John’s shoulder. Usually just before snickering in his ear how _fetching_ John’s apron looked or how it was a good thing their parents had two daughters so she wasn’t stuck by the stove all day.

He’d let the jabs roll off his shoulders for the most part. Because what his sister failed to realize every time she teased him, was that John _wanted_ to be there. Maybe it was a touch selfish, but cooking was something he got to have with their mum all to himself.

Consequently, being ‘ _stuck by the stove_ ’ made him quite a hit with his friends’ mums any time John was invited over for dinner. Admittedly, John rather liked the delighted look he’d received when he’d offer to help prep. That apparently followed him later in life when he had the opportunity to cook for dates at their homes— _never_ the other way around. John had made that mistake once. _Once_. It ended up with a beautifully prepared plate of baked ziti dumped on his head (a first) and Sherlock blinking away a slapped cheek (not a first) before plucking a bit of cheesy pasta from John’s shoulder and eating it.

‘ _Oh that **is** good.’_

Besides teaching the fundamentals and a repertoire of dishes, Mrs. Watson also impressed on John the satisfaction found in the process. That it wasn’t just about the final product, but each step along the way. So, while John’s sinuses were gummed up and his eyes had an acrid burn when he closed them any longer than a few seconds, he felt…content.

Really the only thing that would have made doing this better was having someone to cook _for_.

John would have invited Mrs. H up for a bite, but by the time he’d finished his shift and made it back home, the landlady had turned in for the evening. At least John assumed so going by the lack of the telly blaring from her flat. He decided to bring her some leftovers tomorrow morning—a humble deposit against the mountain of meal-debt he’d accrued over his residency. Not that he amassed it _all_ by himself…

The antiquated radio John set up near the microwave on the far side of the kitchen hummed with an upbeat intro. With a slight turn of his head, John could just make out the opening lyrics over the sizzling pan:

_‘The city streets are empty now. The lights don’t shine no more.’  
‘And so the songs are way down low. Turning, turning, turning.’_

A small but wistful hurt came over him and John curtailed it with a shake of his head and a cynical chuckle as he redistributed the onions with a few deft turns of his spatula. _Oh that’s perfect that._ Leave it to the universe to have such a shite sense of humor.

It was just as the song was hitting the end of the first verse that the doctor’s ears picked up his mobile ringing over it.

_‘A sound that flows into my mind, the echoes of the daylight.’  
‘Of everything that is alive, in my blue world.’_

As he glanced to his far left along the counter where his phone was charging near the sink, John was shocked to see its screen darkened and that the noise was actually coming from the _other_ phone sitting right beside it. John’s lungs tightened at the sight.

_‘I turn to stone, when you are gone, I turn to stone.’  
‘Turn to stone, when you comin’ home? I can’t go on.’_

Cursing under his breath, John swept round the kitchen bench and sharply flicked off the radio. The sudden lack of competing sound made the ringing all the more prevalent. All the more real.

It was mid-August, nearly a month since he’d received the damn thing from Mycroft and the phone hadn’t made a peep till now.

Crossing back over to the stove, John turned the heat to simmer and wiped his hands clean on the dish towel, tossing it down in a crumpled heap as he picked up the mobile. The device felt heavy in his palm for something so streamline.

John steeled himself and slid the green phone icon to the right side of the screen.

“Hello?” The doctor frowned at the roughness in his voice.

“Oh—erm—I hadn’t expected you to pick up.” Came a soft reply.

“Well I did.” John returned, doing his best to ignore the flutter in his pulse at hearing Sherlock over a phone again, the horribly ease in which it brought to mind the _last_ time he did.

“Yes…yes you did—” Sherlock pondered, his voice almost lost by a swishy noise overlaying it, like his face or some bit of clothing were rubbing against the receiver. There was an uncomfortable pause that set John’s jaw clenching before Sherlock came back, muttering casually. “ _So,_ how’s it going?”

“Fine. Look…I want to make one thing clear here.” John took a lean against the counter at his back, addressing the room for lack of a person. “This is not—this not me forgiving you. This is not me trying to reconcile. You wanted a chance to explain so…explain.”

That had sounded a sight better in John’s mind when he’d thought of it weeks ago. Still, he reckoned it got the manner of his participation here across well enough. He just needed to stay on point, stay impartial. He would hear what Sherlock had to say for himself and then—well…he hadn’t exactly decided on the ‘ _then_ ’ part just yet.

There was a low, vaguely displeased sounding hum, like John had asked him if he could try not store a tin of toenail clippings _right_ next to the one they kept coffee in.

Sherlock’s lips parted audibly. “Yeah now’s not exactly the _best_ time.”

John took a grounding breath, unfurling his right hand where it had been clamped round the edge of the counter to pinch at the bridge of his nose, feeling his blood pressure rising behind his ears.

“You called me.” He pointed out tersely.

“It’s just terribly inconvenient.” Sherlock mumbled, his reply dampened in spots by another loud smooshy interference against the mic.

John’s eyes squeezed tighter. “Sherlock…”

“Really, you should have let me do this back in Durham when there was ample ti—”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Alright! Alright!” The detective whispered harshly. It was then John realized Sherlock was purposely keeping his voice down. He also became aware by the lack of background noises to distinguish the man’s location. No voices or the passing of cars or the gush of wind. Sherlock could have been curled up in a ruddy closet for all it sounded like.

“Where are you?” The doctor demanded before he could stop himself.

There was a weary exhale followed by a dour. “I can’t say…exactly.”

John’s ire lapsed a bit. “Are you alright?”

“More or less. Now do you want an explanation right this _second_ or not?” Sherlock’s previous annoyance had rebounded.

“ _Yeah_ …yes.” John shifted his weight from one foot to another. Knowing Sherlock, ‘ _more or less’_ could mean a host of different things. From a bout of boredom to Sherlock finding himself in a hostage situation—which in John’s experience astonishingly sometimes involved _both_. To be fair, Sherlock didn’t exactly gauge a situation like a normal person with an innate sense of self-preservation would have. Being surrounded by seventeen armed gunmen was trivial while not being able to work on a case above a 4 in a week was cause for John to re-hide his Sig.

After a bit more rustling, Sherlock took a sweeping breath and announced quietly, “Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”

“ _You know who_ was fed certain bits of information to give him what he thought was ammunition against me months before his trial.”

“By Mycroft…” John interjected, his brow furrowing down the middle as he put two and two together, even if it _was_ self-explanatory. “…so he _didn’t_ sell you out.”

“Correct. The intent was to show our hand so he might show his. And he did…to an extent. It amounted to few points of the vast criminal network he’d established.” Sherlock blazed on. Though hushed, his words had a hungry zeal. One John was trying to not let sway him like it used to. _Leave it to him to grandstand at a time like this._

“You remember his software; the key to any door real or virtual? Never existed. A complete fake. He—it was a game John. The break-ins, the trial, Brooks, my ruined credibility, I _was_ right. Everything a maneuver on a board to get the two of us in place to make his final move.”

“Which, tediously enough included me committing suicide.” Sherlock griped and for a moment John was speechless, the upper part of his face scrunched up, the lower half hanging open.

“I don’t know—where to even begin telling you how _wrong_ that sentence was.” The doctor stammered before shaking it off to ask. “So at no point while _all_ _of this_ was going on did you think, ‘Oh. _Maybe_ I should let John in on my plans’?”

“Actually…that part wasn’t _my_ idea.” Sherlock replied drily.

John let out a bark, just sort of hysterical. “Since when do you ever listen to your brother?!”

Sherlock pressed on with a heavy sigh, markedly choosing to ignore John’s rebuke. “There were certain _factors_ in play I hadn’t anticipated once I invited you know who onto the roof. I wanted to avoid _actually_ dying if possible. Which meant making a few arrangements based on several scenarios I—”

John’s face fell. “ _Who_.”

“Who?” Sherlock parroted.

“ _Arrangements_ with _who_?” John managed steadily, feeling just about everything inside of him sink into his shoes. His mind flashed to all the instances he confided in Greg or Mrs. Hudson about Sherlock. The idea that either of them or both could have known this entire time made his stomach lurch.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and when he spoke again, his previous bravado had receded. “A mutual acquaintance of ours. She—she was integral in forging my coronary report and preparing the stand-in body for mine…”

“And some of my homeless network. That’s it.”

John nodded slowly to an empty room. “So Mycroft, Molly Hooper, and every pauper in London.”

“No! Not _all_ of them.” The detective scoffed before catching himself. “Twenty three to be exact…” He added softer.

 “Do you have _any_ idea how— _insulting_ that is?” John snapped, growing more livid as he went on. “ _Hmm_? That some blokes off the street you occasionally slip twenty quid to knew—”.

John stopped, jaw clenching as he lowered his voice as well. Sherlock wasn’t the only one in a position of discretion. Though Mrs. Hudson had likely retired for the night and with any luck on the back of one of her herbal soothers, it didn’t completely negate the chance she might overhear him.

“…knew you _dying_ was all a trick and not me? _Me_. Your supposed _only friend_ _in the world_!” He rasped.

At that moment John became very aware just how loudly he was breathing through his nostrils. He sucked in as deeply as he could until his lungs burned, centering on releasing it slowly and silently as he held out for a response. When one wasn’t forthcoming after several seconds of terse silence, he found himself whispering Sherlock’s name into the mobile.

“It was the only way I could beat him.” Sherlock replied with such a familiar finality, John could almost imagine looking down to see him sitting at the small kitchen table. Peering unflappably back over his microscope for a beat before retracting his attention. Washing his hands of their discussion with the flick of his gaze.

The line remained quiet, but there was no doubt in John’s mind Sherlock was still there, waiting. Probably already predicting his bloody reaction before John even had it.

“Right.” John said, somehow keeping his tone level whereas every fiber in him vibrated.

“I hope it was all worth it Sherlock. I really do.”

The start of a sentence was caught; a faint “ _John I—_ ” as he pulled the phone away and with one sure press of his thumb, ended the call.

John’s fingers squeezed around the mobile tightly, fighting the urge to hurl it across the room at the wall. Instead he gritted a curse through his teeth and let the hand with the device in it fall limply to his side. He measured his breathing, feeling like he’d been struck with the blunt force of a wave breaking on him. The kind that tore the ground away from under you and knocked the air from your chest as you tumbled in its hold. The kind that would put any unprepared, inexperienced person into panic.

Over a year apart and here he was, towed away in Sherlock’s eddy…  

Loosening his grip on the phone to slip it into his pocket, John let out a long exhale and turned back to the stove, reaching for the burner’s dial with a steady hand.

…and god help him if he hadn’t missed it.

 

.. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... ..- .-. -. /

 

There was a creeping sense of nostalgia to be bared as John passed through the Homicide and Major Crime division of NSY, a laden—and security examined—brown paper bag in one hand, the other swinging gently by his hip.

How many times had he taken the same direct path to Lestrade’s office on the heels of Sherlock? The way the Yarders would look up and stare as he stalked by. Sherlock was usually so focused on his reason for being there that he’d either ignored or missed their reactions entirely.  

John used to rather enjoy it though, albeit secretly. While he tended to like things kept modest, watching Sherlock command the attention he did when the detective simply entered a room was undeniably gratifying.

Now John was just thankful no one gave him a second or even a first glance as he made his way passed desks and meeting rooms towards the back of the floor. And more than thankful that Sally Donovan was nowhere to be seen.

In light of recent—discoveries, John’s opinion of the detective sergeant had improved to something a touch less detestable then what it used to be. There was still the matter of Sally diving at the chance to throw Sherlock under the bus with the tailored evidence Moriarty provided—which as far as John knew was _still_ under question.

So while Donovan was technically nothing but a pawn in a lunatic’s game much like the rest of them, that didn’t mean John was in any rush to bury the hatchet. Though there were a few places he could envision embedding one…

As John approached a long stretch of windows that made up the outer wall of Greg’s office, he suddenly heard the DI’s voice filter out into the hall from the open door.

“Not if you keep this up.”

“For the last time— _let it go_.”

The doctor stopped short, easing back a step where he could just peer in through the first large pane of glass without standing entirely in front of it. There was one other man in the office besides Lestrade, who was sitting at his desk and partially blocked from view. The other man stood at the opposite side of the desk, his curled back to John, leaning over as he addressed the DI.

The unobscured half of Greg’s face John could see appeared unmistakably frustrated. Weary more than enraged. And from the tension held in the stranger’s thin frame, the way he had one hand plastered on the desk’s surface regardless of the papers quashed beneath his palms, how the other was gesturing animatedly down at something lying between them, that frustration was mutual.

John missed whatever words went with the movement, but he could certainly hear the growing desperation and excitement in the man’s muffled tone and see it coil up in his shoulders. Which was more than enough to put John on the defensive.

 _Right then._ It was a rare opportunity when John got to purposely put himself in the wrong place at the wrong time…

He snuck backwards several paces and reset his stride towards the office, acting unaware to any of the activity going on inside. As John reached the door-frame, he gave a brisk knock at the same time as he casually leaned in.

It certainly achieved the surprise the doctor hoped for.

Himself included.

Lestrade simply glanced over, his irritation quickly falling away at seeing John in the entry, while the man curled over his desk shot up to reveal a very spooked, very bearded…Philip Anderson.

There was a few seconds of shared bewilderment; John attempting to school his disbelief had probably failed miserably. It wasn’t due to having Philip in front of him after so long per say, but the sheer _state_ of the man.

The beard was one thing—dense and unkempt as it was, however Anderson’s overall appearance was a slapdash version of his former self. His hair was longer, so stringy and pressed to his skull that it looked two shades darker. Instead the formal suit, he wore a rumpled off-white button-down tucked unevenly into a pair of faded brown corduroy trousers. It gave the impression that Philip hadn’t seen a comb besides his own fingers and a good ironing in months.

The most stunning aspect though was his complete shift in personality. Stripped was the pompous, sniveling air of self-righteousness John had come to anticipate and in its stead was something meek and almost—paranoid.

No wonder he hadn’t been recognizable from behind. For intents and purposes, the man standing before John looking like some recluse English professor simply _wasn’t_ Philip Anderson.

Realizing he was gawking, John cleared his throat and promptly shifted his attention to Lestrade. Philip meanwhile dropped his owlish gaze to where the floor met the desk, looking for all the world like he wanted to crawl underneath it. He wasn’t alone in the sentiment; John had the distinct urge to do an about-face himself and leave.

“I uh—didn’t mean to interrupt.” Lied John, shuffling a bit in the doorway. He’d hoped for a little guidance from the DI, but all Lestrade returned him was a regretful smile before leaning back in his chair.

“That’s alright, Anderson here was just leaving.” Greg replied, folding his arms across his chest and casting a hard look up at the former forensic pathologist. The last bit sounded far more like an order then an announcement.

It was enough to snap Philip from his catatonic state. His head whipped up, a limp strand of hair falling across one eye. Philip’s mouth opened, gearing up to say something when Lestrade cocked a brow, a blatant challenge as he added “Weren’t you?”

Swallowing down whatever rebuttal he’d been building, Anderson gave a small defeated nod and bent forward, reaching for a folder lying open on Greg’s desk. For the brief glimpse that John got before the man flicked it closed, he saw what appeared to be a poorly folded map marked heavily in red marker and several newspaper clippings piled on top.

Philip threw one last dejected glance toward Lestrade then beat a hasty retreat. He paused a second in the doorway to mutter a scant: “John” in greeting and goodbye before eking past the doctor and into the hall. John turned to watch him practically scurry away, his head downcast, avoiding eye contact with anyone and whatever Anderson had in the folder clutched protectively to his chest.

“Before you ask…” Greg sighed resignedly, drawing John’s focus back into the office as he gathered up a stack of papers Anderson had wrinkled under his hand. “ _Don’t_.” Greg tamped the bottom edges sharply then plopped them on the top mesh tray of a document organizer.

“Say no more.” John conceded gently and came inside; taking up one of the two chairs situated in front of the desk and placing the bag he was holding in the other. He busied himself while Lestrade went about clearing more space by unfurling the rolled edge of the bag.

Greg had texted him earlier that afternoon about grabbing some lunch together from a little hole in the wall deli just a ways down from the Yard. The only hitch being, Lestrade wasn’t able to leave his office so if John was willing to come down and pick it up, he’d in turn cover the entire bill. Not being one to turn down a free lunch for a bit of legwork, John agreed.

The sweet and fermented aroma of sauerkraut hit John’s nose when he pulled the first sandwich out, wrapped in thick white parchment paper. He didn’t have to decipher the penned abbreviation on it to know it was Greg’s pastrami on rye.

The DI’s eyes went heavy as soon as the pungent scent wafted its way across his desk and hooted eagerly as John handed it off to him. Lestrade had started picking at the edge of tape sealing the sandwich up when he stopped suddenly, peering sternly over at John. “This is plain rye right?”

“I told them if you saw a single seed I had the right to affray.” John assured him as he pulled out his own sandwich—a smoked roast chicken, thinly sliced on a crusty sourdough with spinach, mozzarella, and a generous smear of pesto.  And if the heavenly smell coming off it was any indication, the owners put as much loving care into making their pesto as they did their sauerkraut.

“Damn right.” Greg agreed, finally unwrapping his sandwich and letting out a pleasured growl as it was revealed. Prying off the top slice of bread, Greg made for the packets of brown mustard John had left in a little pile, masterfully tearing one open with his teeth.

From the bag, the doctor produced two cans of soda, a lidded styrofoam cup containing a few pickle spears and a small bag of crisps—an impulse grab—for them to share, which he wrestled open and dumped out mostly on an unfolded napkin.

Lestrade gave an appreciative but muffled _aww_ around his mouthful of pastrami at the sight before sitting up. He plopped his sandwich down and grabbed a stray napkin with shiny fingers. “How much do I owe?” Greg asked, leaning slightly to one side and reaching behind him for his wallet.

“Uh…minus the crisps—sixteen quid, but we’ll settle up later.” John waved it off as he bit into a pickle spear, made from scratch as well by the taste of it. The brine of pickling spices, vinegar, and dill bursting on his tongue.

“So, anything on?” John asked after a minute or two of both men concentrating solely on inhaling their lunches.

Greg gave a cynical puff, washing down his mouthful with a chug of soda. He curled a fist to his lips to stifle what turned out to be a robust burp. “Cor…s’cuse me.” The DI pardoned himself, his black leather chair squeaking as he reclined. “Nothing particularly _interesting_. Or at least what used to be considered interesting.” Greg mused a little sadly, nodding to the stack of papers and folders he’d moved aside.  

“There’s a bit of an overflow between divisions. I’m up to my arse in petty crimes and public indecencies.” He groused.

“Just this morning I was called in to arrest some bloke after his neighbor complained he was watering the flowerbeds in her garden.”

John gave an amused frown behind his napkin, wiping a splotch of pesto from the corner of his mouth. “Is that really a chargeable crime?”

“It wasn’t with water.” Lestrade clucked his tongue, eyebrows arching as he plucked a few crisps from the now dwindling pile.

It took John longer then it probably should have to construe what he was implying, but when he did, the doctor gave a laughing groan. “You’re serious?”

“Yep. Claimed he was full of nitrogen or some tosh. I’ve got’em in the hold until I can figure out what the hell to do with him. It’s been like this all bloody day! I swear, as soon as the temperature starts raising everything goes tits up.”

John snorted as he took a nip of his soda, his breath whistling against the aluminum. On the topic of people behaving bizarrely, he found himself thinking back on the strange encounter with Anderson. Admittedly, John was a little curious. The first and subsequently last thing Lestrade had mentioned about the man was that he no longer worked with the Met. As to the circumstances of Philip's departure or what he was up to now, Greg hadn’t supplied. Most likely out of respect for John.

Still, it seemed like a sore subject considering Lestrade’s mood when he arrived. The DI was in much better spirits now, smiling, joking lightheartedly. John hated to sour it just to slake his own niggling curiosity. Perhaps he could mention it offhandedly…if Greg felt like adding to it great, if not, John would let it go.

Taking advantage in the lull in conversation, the doctor began casually. “Speaking of which…” John shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and resting the can on his thigh. “Philip looked a bit— _eh_ —spare.”

As expected, Lestrade’s mirth dampened and John was quick to intervene. “Not asking just…observing.” He raised a placating hand. “It’s just been a while since I’ve had any contact with him—and that’s not a complaint. But seeing him today like that. Is he alright?”

Greg opened his mouth and then exhaled, cutting himself off before he even began. He pursed his lips, looking off into the office for a moment then flicking his eyes over to John. Seemingly having his own internal debate.

“Sod it.” Lestrade sat up abruptly, making his chair _thunk_ and wobble. Reaching for a fat pickle spear, the DI bit in nearly in half. He considered John for a moment while he chewed loudly.

“The truth is…” He grimaced, though whether that was from the subject matter or the large mouthful of pickle going down Greg’s throat, John wasn’t sure.

“Anderson went a little— _barmy_ after everything with Sherlock. I don’t know, I think the guilt finally got to him or something. Just before he got sacked, Philip started getting all _conspiratorial_ about Sherlock’s death. Mainly that—well—that he _didn’t_.”

“Die that is.” Greg supplemented, devouring the other half of his pickle and going for another, determined to drown his nerves in brine. All the while John listened; he somehow succeeded in keeping a passive face. The idea of Philip Anderson of _all_ people being right for once concerning Sherlock was just too surreal.

“I tried to talk some sense into him but the nutter went and started himself a group! The Empty Hearse—that’s what they call themselves. There’s a sodding website and everything. They’re convinced Sherlock’s roaming the globe _battling crime_.” Lestrade waved the lip veggie indignantly and John nearly choked on his own spit.

It was a small wonder Greg didn’t notice the squeaky punch of a cough the doctor made; or if he did the man had the good grace to disregard it. He went on while John sputtered into his fist.

“I wanted to tell you sooner John but there just wasn’t a good time. And mostly I—well I didn’t want to open old wounds.”  Lestrade finished somberly.

John cleared his throat forcefully; dislodging whatever had trickled down into his windpipe and took a deep unhindered breath. _Shit._

It hadn’t slipped John’s mind during the last two and a half months that eventually, he would have to actively uphold the ruse in some way, shape, or form. There was no other way around it if it was a means to keep Sherlock’s secret…something which John hadn’t been trusted to do in the bloody first place!

Stalling, the doctor looked down at his blunt fingers wrapped around the can. He could feel Greg watching him carefully and John hoped it appeared like he was mulling over this new piece of information. Which he was, in a way. Just not the way the Greg probably assumed.

“It’s okay.” John said after a minute. “And you have nothing to apologize for mate. Honestly.” He assured him, regarding Lestrade for a tic before returning his gaze to his hand. The aluminum popped softly underneath his fingertips as John squeezed it a little. He ran his tongue across his lips.

“I think we’re all just…trying to keep Sherlock alive in our own ways.”

_John Watson ladies and gentlemen, best and worst friend ever._

He glanced up again and gave Greg a half smile before knocking back the last of his now room-temperature soda. Well that was about as bumpy as John imagined. Even worse as Greg seemed to accept it with a frightfully sympathetic nod.

“You should see his flat though.” Lestrade mentioned offhandedly a short time later as both men cleaned up before John left. Greg was in the midst of making for the last pickle, only stopping to confirm John didn’t want it, which he did with a scrunch of his nose.

“Looks like something out of Seven.” The DI scowled, sucking pickle juice from his fingers. “Poor bastard needs some serious help. Or a fucking holiday.”

“Oh! Before I forget.” He fished his wallet out, plucking several notes from it and passing them to John across the desk.

 

\- .... . / .... . .- .-. - / --- ..- - / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don’t come away from this chapter craving fried onions, a heap of sauerkraut, or a hearty deli pickle then I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
> 
> Also bonus points if you know/heard the song I referenced. It's like from the bestest band ever. 
> 
> Your handy-dandy Morse Code Translator: <http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html>
> 
> I recommend grabbing a line of code and pasting it in, hitting return then pasting the next line of code and THEN hit translate. It's a bit easier that way.


	10. Chapter 10

If John’s pace was a bit slower than usual as he left NSY and began his walk to Westminster Station he hadn’t really taken notice. He’d been too deep in his mulling over what Lestrade had confided to him. About Anderson’s latest ‘obsession’ and the apparent website that sprung from it. And while John’s better judgment told him to just let it be, he couldn’t deny being bloody curious.

‘ _Roaming the globe battling crime’_ as Greg put it certainly sounded like something Sherlock would do, but there had to be more to it than that. Why else would there be the need for so much secrecy?

Sherlock elected to fake his death to beat Moriarty— _fine_. John was well aware by now that when it came to taking extreme measures, that man never shied away. It was one of the most magnificent and exasperating things about him. That being said, though John still felt it an unbelievably heartless thing to do—even for Sherlock, if he were given the choice of the detective actually being dead and just pretending to be, he’d pick the latter in a heartbeat.

No, what had John baffled currently was the _remaining_ dead part. What sort of mission was Sherlock on that required him to stay deceased?

 _If_ —and that was a big if—Anderson’s website was legitimate, maybe there was some clue, some connection to be found. _In any case, maybe I can see what that silly arse is up to_.

Just ahead, John spotted a little café at the end of the block and made his way towards it. With the afternoon rush gone, the shop was nearly empty but for a few stragglers. John noted only three patrons as he entered, immediately welcomed by a blast of cold air from the ac unit just above his head. It was enough to send a small shiver through him as he made his way to the counter where two lone baristas cleaned, preparing for after-work crowd to descend in a few hours.

With a small black coffee in hand, John sequestered himself in a booth and pulled out his mobile phone. It felt admittedly daft punching ‘ _The Empty Hearse_ ’ into his browser’s search field, that feeling only growing as the overwhelming quantity of hearse rentals that popped up in the results. John scrolled through them, nearly snorting a laugh when he came across one company that rented their cars out for weddings. Definitely took the phrase ‘ _till death do we part_ ’ to an absurd level. 

He was considering refining his search criteria, already half-way through flicking past the third page of results, when John’s eyes caught:

##  **TEH – The Truth Must Be Known**

_http://www.theemptyhearse.com **  
**_ Welcome fellow believers! #Sherlocklives

Something shrill and eager flared in John’s stomach as his thumb hovered over the bold blue text. He glanced up a moment from his phone, taking in his surroundings. Besides him, there was an elderly woman sitting by one of the large front windows, taking advantage of the late afternoon light as her bespectacled nose was buried in what looked like a romance novel. At least John assumed so based sheerly on the cover depicting a half-naked woman swooning over an equally half-naked man who appeared to be artfully lashed to the mast of a boat.

The other two occupants were a pair of Uni students going by the massive textbooks cracked open between them and their lively debate on what sounded like economics.

Not the lot one would peg to be secret agents or spies. John huffed a quiet chuckle and without further ado, tapped the link.

As it turned out the website consisted entirely of a forum…and a dated looking one at that. Not that John considered himself an expert on current web design—his own blog was evidence enough. _But at least mine is legible_ , John thought critically as he rotated his phone, letting the display shift to landscape for a better view. It didn’t help much, as the page’s colors were black and dark grey with not-quite-white text, making it tricky to read even when zoomed in.  John did his best though, moving his phone closer to his face as he swiped and pinched and stretched.

There were four sections in total: News and Announcements—which he decided to skip as it only seemed to pertain to the forum itself, Sightings, Speculations, and General Chat.

Threads with the most recent activity were displayed beneath each section and his attention fell on one entitled: ‘Killer Waves’ authored by a ‘Deer_Stalker82’ under Sightings. John tapped it and couldn’t help but smile softly as the poster’s avatar appeared. It was an awkwardly angled head-shot of a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, her coppery red hair stuffed haphazardly under an achingly familiar floppy hat as she winked and grinned at the camera.

She had pasted several links to German news sites, along with a blurb discussing them, thankfully in _fully_ white text:

 

 

> _Not sure about that title…_
> 
> _So I know there’s been some possible sightings going around in Germany this past month and I found something I just had to share._
> 
> _Now_ , _my German’s a bit rusty, so anyone feel free to check my translation, but apparently there was an ongoing investigation in Berlin into the murder of one_ _Margrit Stuhr_ _by, a delegate in the Bundesrat (Federal Council). The murder was thought to be an opportunistic sort of thing during an attempted burglary of Stuhrby’s home. There were no leads besides that until two days ago when **miraculously** investigators made a breakthrough and arrested an Edmund Hilscher. _
> 
> _Here’s the best bit…authorities were able to link him to the murder based tiny castoffs of **wax** found at the victim’s home! Hilscher was a surfing enthusiast living over on Nordstrand_ _beach in Borkum and I guess made his own board wax?_
> 
> _Not only did they place him there the night Stuhrby was killed; they also found detailed schedules, surveillance photos, and personal information for **seven** other delegates at his flat! Evidently old Ed had big plans. _

* * *

> _**Baskerhound** : Great catch love! I’m glad they nailed the bastard before he got anyone else. That poor woman.  :(_

* * *

> _**Bluebell** : Your German **is** terrible. It wasn’t just the wax that was important, but what was found IN the wax. Mainly particles of sand matching the same beach Hilscher resided on.  _

* * *

> _**Deer_Stalker82** : I said rusty not terrible!  Anyway that makes it more authentic right?_

* * *

> _**Baskerhound** : Oh absolutely. And don’t listen to Blue sweetie. Maybe she could contribute something worthwhile to the forum other than snappy remarks for once. _

* * *

> _**Anders** : Let’s keep this civil ladies. I don’t want to have to lock this thread. _
> 
> _While this **should** have gone in Spec first, I’ll let it slide because it’s a brilliant find! Keep us updated DS!_

* * *

 

John frowned at his phone and began going through the links. He wasn’t able to read a lick of them of course save for a few recognizable words, but one did happen to have an image of this Hilscher chap being led by the elbows by _several_ officers towards a waiting police car. The photographer had managed to capture him giving a particularly menacing death-glare that made the hairs on the back of John’s neck prickle.

He’d helped apprehend men like that in the past—ruthless, proficient. The type who would sooner slit your throat then throw a punch. Though Hilscher was of a leaner build, a man like that should never under any circumstances be underestimated. Even if he did have an impressively rich tan for surfing in northern Germany…

John suddenly thought back to that night in Durham. Sherlock’s complexion had been darker then he’d ever seen it, hair lighter, shaggier, and his body thinner but _toned_.

Navigating back to the forum, the doctor found the date of the first post and noted it was created back in the middle of June. Just about a few days before Sherlock had revealed himself to him.

 _That can’t be a coincidence, can it?_ John wondered, finally taking a sip of his coffee and grimacing. He’d asked for a shot of hazelnut in his drink on a whim but he could barely taste it. On top of that the brew itself was downright watery. Setting his cup aside in disappointment, John went back to his research.

Well, coincidences aside, it wasn’t exactly what he would call a ‘sighting’. Generally something being sighted included actually being _seen_. From what he could tell, besides the uncanny foresight of the authorities to discover and test wax of all things, there was zero indication of Sherlock being involved anywhere in the investigation.

Over the next hour or so John worked his way through The Empty Hearse, hoping to find anything more definite.

The less substantial or ambiguous instances went into the Speculations section. Everything from grainy surveillance images where people claimed to see Sherlock in a crowd or dressed in some elaborate disguise: ‘ _That old man in the fedora selling books, it’s definitely him!_ ’ to crackpot theories like Sherlock was masquerading as an Elvis impersonator in Las Vegas.

John skipped over most of those; though he did find the one about a female drug smuggler outed by a ‘ _Buddhist abbot of notable height with unusual powers of observation and deduction_ ’ while she was hiding at a monastery somewhere deep in the Himalayas particularly amusing. 

There was one about a massive human trafficking ring in Tokyo being exposed. Authorities were quoted as saying the victims—nearly three dozen hidden in a cellar of a laundromat, kept claiming a ‘ _towering man with dark hair and bright eyes_ ’ that showed up out of nowhere and freed them.

It was then John started to notice an ongoing trend:

A ‘ _Tall snappish man in a fine-tailored suit_ ’ kept his fellow jurors in a standstill as they deliberated a verdict for a man accused of murdering his wife in Hamburg. After a three hour deadlock there was a unanimous vote of guilty.

In Istanbul, a Mahir Tiryaki was seen having dinner several times with a ‘ _Tall dark-haired businessman of unknown origins_ ’ before he was later found to be manufacturing heroin and other Schedule 1 narcotics beneath a derelict paper factory. Police were only halfway through processing the huge underground laboratory when it and the factory were razed in a fire that was still under investigation.

Edna Bachman, seventy five, vacationing in Rome described the man who saved her and seventeen other people in a bank heist before vanishing as mysteriously as he showed up ‘ _He was like a curly-haired Errol Flynn! So tall and dashing—he even winked at me!_ ’

“He’s not _that_ bloody tall.” John muttered under his breath, so preoccupied he reached for his drink and had it nearly to his lips when he caught himself. With a grimace, the doctor averted his face and clapped the cup down sharply on the table.

“Dr. Watson?” Came a soft inquiry from his left. John glanced over, admittedly shocked to see none other than Mary Morstan standing halfway between him and the counter, her tentative smile widening as their eyes met and she apparently confirmed her suspicion. 

As she approached his booth, John shut off his mobile’s display, setting it face down between his hands. “Mary, hello.” He stumbled through his greeting, attempting to polish it off with a grin.

“I’m not bothering you am I?” Mary frowned a little worriedly and John saw her eyes flick briefly to the abandoned phone. “I was just passing by and decided to stop in for a quick cuppa before I headed home.” She added with an innocent shrug.

“ _No_ , no. It’s fine.” John assured her, stealing a glance at her right hand where it was tucked into the pocket of a oversized lacy-knit beige jumper. “How are you? How’s the hand?”

“Good thank you. Here, have a look.” Mary withdrew her hand from her pocket, taking a step or two closer as she presented her palm. John scooted towards the edge of his seat and leaned. He’d personally removed the stitches just over two weeks ago and the resulting scar seemed to be developing quite nicely. The scar itself was uniform, raised and a warm rosy pink at its deepest end, but showed no sign spreading. By the time it descended and turned pale, there would barely be any indication of the injury at all.

As Mary tilted her hand, John could spot the sheen of the silicone gel he’d recommended spread over the wound and the surrounding skin, along with a faint medicinal scent under the same flowery perfume.  “You’ve been taking excellent care of this.” He remarked, pleased to see it doing so well.

“I know.” Mary donned a playful grin when John looked up at her. “Though I can’t take _all_ the credit.” She mused, tucking her hand back in her pocket and adjusting the straps of the small red leather purse perched on her shoulder with the other. “The bloke who patched me up did a terrific job.”

John could feel warmth rising in his cheeks even as he remarked casually. “Gosh…” He sat back against the bench. “He sounds _awfully_ impressive.”

Mary gave a breathy laugh, bowing her head for a moment before she glanced at him under the soft curve of brown lashes. “We’ll see.” John caught himself staring again, the café falling to the wayside of his attention even as the door whooshed loudly open as another patron entered. How he missed the sound when Mary arrived, he chalked up to being so focused on his reading.

“All kidding aside, you really did wonderfully.” Mary spoke up, breaking the bubble. “I’ve seen my fair share of sutures but yours were pristine.”

Fighting back another blush, John averted his gaze for a spell, watching the newest arrival—a couple, their fingers laced between them as they made their way to the counter. His eyes then swept over the room, finding the two Uni students now furiously taking notes over a second round of drinks while the older woman with the romance novel had vanished, a young man with a laptop and an absurdly big cup now in her place. He was staring at his screen with a fervent sort of focus, fingers soaring over the keyboard as he typed.

“I’ve…had some practice.” John muttered absently but warmly, towing his attention back to Ms. Morstan and covering up his lapse in conversation with another smile. “Just before I graduated, I joined the army on a Medical Cadetship.”

Mary's brows rose, openly intrigued. “Surgeon?” She asked.

“GP.” John amended with a half shrug. “I ended up stationed here and there for a handful of years. Then one day I got the bright idea to go career. Spent the rest of my time abroad running around the desert trying not to get killed.” He reminisced fondly.

“Sounds a bit like you miss it.”

“More than a bit.” John looked down at his left hand where it rested on his knee. “Believe it or not, those were some of the best years of my life.”

“I believe it.” Mary replied. There was something wistful in her tone and as John glanced up he caught a minute look of sadness on the woman’s features. It passed a second later as she adopted a pleasant smile. “I should probably get going. I have an interview ungodly early tomorrow over at Saint Thomas’ in Westminster.”

John nodded with slow, if not hesitant recognition, catching a mildly puzzled look from Mary for it. “Oh it’s a great facility.” He assured her.  “The staff’s surprisingly…tolerant.” Though anyone would have to be when treating a walking talking encyclopedia of insults with a mild concussion. And that was on two separate occasions. Oh and how could John forget the sprained pinky and that poor attending physician? John had attempted to apologize as the man fled the examination room blinking back tears but when the _on call_ doctor returned an hour later with Sherlock’s x-rays, he knew the damage was done.

Mary looked a second away from inquiring about his choice of phrasing when John dismissed it with a shake of his head. Luckily she seemed to take the hint and sighed. “I hope so. Took bloody ages to get them to see me. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like out here. Everything local is either at capacity or you have to be someone’s sodding mate to even get a second look. It’s all… _politics_.” She finished bitterly. At seeing the honest concern on John’s face, her frustration melted away and Mary shot him a tight smile, seeming embarrassed at her own outburst.

“Don’t mind me I’m just—.” She trailed off with a defusing huff. Though John could easily see the tension still in the hand that gripped the straps of her bag. He honestly wished there was something he could do; even if he knew Mary better, a letter of recommendation from a locum doctor wasn’t much of anything. And sadly they were just as capped at the clinic as—and suddenly John had an idea.

“Mary…” He began thoughtfully. “Listen, now I can’t promise anything will come of it but…one of our nurses is about to go on maternity leave in a few weeks. If you get me a copy of your CV, I could pass it on to my supervisor.”

“Are you serious?” Mary’s eyes went wide before let out a soft gasp, her fingers coming up to her mouth. “I mean…oh my god. Yes!” She cried letting out a small ‘oh’ at her voice level. Mary took a glance around her and giggled. Her smile was radiant, lighting up her features.

“Well I’m not much of a politician, but I can put in a good word for you at the very least. Maybe we can get you in as temp.” John solaced, unable to help grinning as well.

“No absolutely. I—I can’t even—” Mary hugged an arm around herself. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

John’s smile broadened as he stood, pocketing his phone and picking up his still full cup, looking forward to the satisfaction of binning it in the nearest reciprocal. He had a brief inkling to ask for a refund, but for only costing him around a pound and a half, it just didn't seem worth the effort.

“Trust me, I’ve been there.” He said, looking out to the middle of the café over Ms. Morstan’s shoulder. “Rent’s due, the money’s running out…” It was no small miracle John ran into Mike Stamford that day in the park. And he knew firsthand how the intervention of a stranger could turn your life around. Turned it right on its head granted. But he’d be amiss if John didn’t recognize Sherlock had saved his life the very moment they’d met at Barts.

“Sometimes all you need is just one good turn.”

Mary's smile softened, though her eyes were still alight with gratitude. “Thank you Dr. Watson.”

“John.” He offered, seeing no reason to keep things so formal. 

“John…thank you.”

\--- -. . / --. --- --- -.. / - ..- .-. -. /

 

The remainder of August passed without event, at least of the phone call variety. It did however leave behind a monster of a heat wave clawing into September that no one in the greater part of London had been prepared for. One week in and they were already clamoring about an Indian Summer on the news.

As far as John was concerned it made sleeping in his bedroom a stifling and sticky nightmare even with a window open. For the better part of a week now he’d taken up residence in the sitting room, benefiting from the cross draft created by having the room’s two large windows and the one in the kitchen wide open at all times.

He was there now, enjoying a much needed breeze as it wafted through the balmy flat, bringing with it the scent of rain-soaked pavement. There’d been a brief but hefty thunder storm an hour or so before and with it a blessed cut in the humidity. Not by much, but enough to dissuade him stripping from his boxers and the thinnest cotton t-shirt he could find. The temptation to strut around starkers however had John seriously contemplating taking the chance that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t randomly need him at 10 o’clock at night.

Outside, Baker Street had gone still. Only the occasional car passed, tires hissing along the damp tarmac or the soft grind of shoes along the pavement as someone ventured out into the muggy evening. 

John had set himself up for the night on the sofa with an anthology of mystery short stories, a pillow quashed behind his back and a thin sheet folded up at the opposite end. Doubtful that it would see use tonight.

On the coffee table was a half-drunk glass of ice water, though by now the cubes had melted into nearly invisible slivers. Condensation dotted the glass’s surface, the beads growing fat before succumbing to their own weight and rolling down its length, collecting in a puddle at the base. Beside it, sat _The Other Phone_ —as John was unofficially referring it to.

He felt a sort of bizarre promiscuity towards it as of late. Like having this phone somehow constituted as cheating on his real one. They were never kept in the same pocket for starters and even now, John’s everyday mobile was tucked away in his jeans which were draped across the back of his armchair. _The_ _Other Phone_ meanwhile was right in arms reach.

Admittedly, it was a damn fancier device in comparison. Newer, silkier, didn’t bog up if you used the internet browser too much—or, _at all_. John made the mistake of looking up the going price for that particular model and after getting over the initial shock, had been practically treating it with kid gloves.

There was also the not so small matter of it being the only link he had to Sherlock. Well, besides _The Empty Hearse_ forums, but that seemed more like eavesdropping on him then something that let him actually talk to the detective.

John had been keeping an eye on forum from time to time since he found it. He never posted himself, though he ended up registering a username so he could subscribe to certain threads. Ones that seemed more plausibly related to Sherlock. But even those only held what John would consider nothing more than a shade of him. Like a movement at the corner of one’s eye, gone when you looked for it. Making you unsure you saw something in the first place.

Which, if John knew anything about Sherlock, that was exactly how he’d want it. To move and operate unseen. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes was a ghost. A glint here, a wisp there, popping up in one part of a country and then suddenly materializing in another miles away a few days later.

It certainly lead credence to the small but growing contingent that believed Sherlock _was_ actually dead and all this activity was the work of a special ops team trained in the man’s methods. Granted that was a far cry better than the small and thankfully _not_ -growing party that held the same theory, but that this elite group consisted of a dozen Sherlock clones grown in some secret lab for years underneath London.

Ridiculous as it was, John couldn’t help but find the idea of Sherlock trying to work alongside himself and the sheer havoc that would ensue to be spectacular. Or that there were large cylinders of synthesized abiotic fluid somewhere deep underground filled with Sherlocks waiting to be cracked open, Belstaffs ready to be deployed.

No matter what strange or plausible thread the doctor perused, they all had one thing in common. Sherlock was out there doing what he always did. He was helping people.

He was just…doing it without John.

_Buggerall. Not this again…_

John let the paperback close on his thumb, his free hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this now. He was _supposed_ trying to relax while he waited for his Zolpidem to kick in. Apparently, John fell into the long end of the spectrum of twenty to forty minutes for the sleep aid to take effect. The doctor in him chalked it up to his present complete lack of exercise. Who knew the most consistent cardio John got was from dashing after a billowy coat-wearing loon?

Twisting round, John went for his watch where it was laid out beside him on the sofa’s armrest. He narrowed his eyes at the numbers, seeing it had been thirty-three minutes since he took his pill. Just a little while longer with any luck.

As he placed his watch down on the coffee table, John’s gaze fell on _The Other Phone_ , laying there quiet and almost seductive looking in the low light thrown from a nearby standing lamp.

Despite the predictably vague reasoning Mycroft gave him—‘ _A peace offering…or an invitation of sorts…’_ , John still didn’t fully comprehend its purpose. 

Here he was, essentially watching Sherlock catch the bad guy over and over again while he remained on the sidelines. Or, if he really wanted to be brutal about it, _retired_. And maybe he was just a bona fide sidekick at the time, but solving crimes had become something as much a part of him as being a doctor and a soldier.

Perhaps by Sherlock staying dead, it meant he could operate on a grander scale, coming and going as he pleased without John or anyone else getting in the way. 

John had wondered in the past—usually after a particularly nasty row with Sherlock—if there would ever come a day the man would grow tired of him. That John would outlive his usefulness. Whatever qualities Sherlock found interesting enough to keep looking at him in that undefinable way that said without saying ‘ _Shall **we**_?’ would suddenly lose their luster.

With a defeated sigh the doctor let his gaze wander from the phone, first to his old lumpy chair then to Sherlock’s where it was shrouded in shadow. At least he could look at it now without feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach.

If he were hard pressed to offer a reason why he hadn’t just lugged it up to the loft with the rest of the detective’s things when John performed his mass exorcism of the flat a year ago, he would have said he hadn’t the strength to do it. Not for a lack of physical strength, though the doctor probably would have struggled relocating it on his own, but emotional strength.

Maybe, Sherlock couldn’t completely abandon him any more than John could completely gut the man from 221B?

Out of all the unanswered questions he’d been amassing over the last few months, John found that one remarkably heartening.

Accepting the reality that any further reading tonight was simply not going to happen, he plucked a strand of red embroidery thread from where it was draped across his thigh and slipped it into the crease where his thumb had been.

That was a bit of a deeply ingrained habit from his childhood. Harry, being the generous soul she tended to be, used to hoard every viable bookmark in the house. So, John improvised by nicking a few inches of what his mum called ‘waste yarn’ from her knitting basket to mark his place. These days he mostly used newspaper twine, but since dismantling his evidence wall, John had a lot of thread lying about.

Setting the book down on his leg, John took a moment to stretch, his right shoulder popping loudly followed quickly by the left as he extended his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. The paperback was dislodged when he arched his back, sliding inward and slipping between his thighs. Righting himself with a yawn, John licked over his lips, suddenly noting how dry his mouth was and frowned.

It was as he was reaching for his drink that the mobile next to it began to ring brightly. John stopped dead in his movement, his pulse flaring as an unfamiliar string of numbers flashed up on the phone’s screen. He hesitated, his fingers curling softly into his palm.

_What have you got to lose really? It’s not like things can get worse between you then they already are right?_

If Sherlock were a riptide, John was the idiot diving back in.

He made a grab for the phone as it reached its third and near finale ring rotation, tapping the green call button, a wavering breath escaping him as John placed the mobile to his cheek.

“John?” Sherlock’s deep voice came almost immediately as the call connected. “John don’t hang up. I just…I just wanted to speak to you.” He sounded earnest, hesitant in a way the doctor rarely heard him use.

Seemingly undeterred by John’s unresponsiveness, Sherlock continued, sucking in short grounding breath. “I believe according to social etiquette an apology is in order. Though…considering everything that’s happened up till now, ‘I’m sorry’ seems grossly inadequate. And unwelcome—I imagine. At this point...” He trailed off.

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “So what does one say when the only word made for such sentiments is…well, useless?”

“Bit of a conundrum. I usually like those.” He added with a shy huff.

John felt more than a bit floored by all this to be truthful. While he agreed apologizing now was well pass due—though not _completely_ uninvited, the fact that Sherlock recognized as much was encouraging. John’s chin sunk downward, taking in the blue, grey, and white plaid pattern of his boxers. He was still at a loss for a reply when Sherlock was suddenly talking again, the detective’s voice tight and a little frustrated.  

“John I—I’d understand it if you hated me—”

“Sherlock—alright, stop right there. I don’t hate you.” John cut in. He unquestionably felt a host of things toward the detective but none of them were anywhere near _that._ “I could bloody well kill you myself for the shite you pulled but I don’t— _hate_ you.”

“But you _are_ angry.” Sherlock ventured thoughtfully after a beat.

“Damn right I am.” John spat, though he regretted it a second later. Being defensive wasn’t going to help either of them. He recognized he no longer had the luxury ( _And isn’t that a kick in the arse?)_ of marching off to simmer down and sort himself out. While John did have this direct line to Sherlock, it was only one way. Who knew when they’d have a chance to talk again?

With a long, decompressing exhale, John gathered his thoughts. “Listen…I don’t know what your intentions were for giving me this phone. But if part of them included trying to salvage this friendship—some things have to change.”

“Such as?”  Sherlock asked, neither in a demanding nor wary way. If anything he sounded curious to John.

“Well, for starters, no more keeping vital things from me. And that goes double for _the work_. I realize you pride yourself on a certain level of disconnect from, well—everyone.”

“Hardly _everyone_.” The detective retorted with a familiar haughtiness.

“ _Mostly_ everyone.” John redacted, smiling a little despite himself. “And while that might be all well and good when it comes to solving cases, when it comes to people who—who care about you. Sherlock, you can’t leave them in the dark and expect them to be fine with it. It doesn’t work like that. _Friendships_ don’t work like that.”

“So you want… _transparency_.” Came Sherlock after a moment, the last bit rolling from the man’s mouth like it was a foreign concept.

“Yeah I want transparency! I want _respect_ Sherlock. The same level of respect that I extend towards you. And that bloody well includes being open with each other.”

Sherlock gave a lofty sigh, though it came off more drained than annoyed. “John…the less you know about my current whereabouts and what I’m doing right now—”

“No I—I get that. I do.” John admitted hastily. “And I’m not talking about that, specifically. It’s just… _Christ_ —there’s has to be something you can tell me that isn’t top fucking secret.”

As the other end of the line went silent, John truly regretted doing this over a sodding phone. He felt adrift not being able to see Sherlock’s face, the myriad of his expressions. Though most of them consisted of a stare, a smirk, a scowl, or something complicated with his eyebrows.

At the very least it gave the doctor some small insight into what was going on in that vast and intricate brain of—

“Hostels are atrocious.”

John licked over his dry lips, his brow creasing in the middle. “Uh… _okay_.”

“What?” Sherlock began tentatively. “Was that—was that not good?”

John was quick to relieve him. “ _No_. Er—no it was, it’s good.” Unsure where to go next as all the obvious questions were probably off-limits, he tried “Are you, in one _now_?”

The detective hummed with a sort of agreeing revulsion. “Though I’m thankfully alone at the moment.”

“I’m savoring it while I can.” He continued sourly. “I suppose it’s the nicer of the one’s I’ve occupied previously if you account for the actual clean bedding. I wouldn’t dare call them beds though. More like bunks. _Bunks_ John. I can't stretch out without my feet sticking over the edge. I feel like I’m staying in a eight year old boy’s bedroom for god sakes!”

Sherlock tutted and if John wasn’t mistaken, there was a faint shuffling as if the he had lain down. “I don’t know how you managed sleeping in barracks for all those years. _Tedious_.” There were a few more rustling noises, a small grunt, and then nothing as Sherlock went still.

Attempting to get more comfortable himself, John fished out the paperback from between his legs and plopped it with a soft slap on the coffee tale. “Well it’s something you get used to after a while.” He said upon settling back, briefly adjusting the pillow behind him that had been sucked half-way down between the arm of the couch and the bottom cushion.

“I don’t plan to.” Sherlock griped with no small hint of distaste. There came a creak and another grunt, then what sounded like something plush—a pillow as well perhaps, being roughed up.

“I didn’t either.” John mused, hearing one final _floof_ as Sherlock must have let his head drop heavily upon it with a huff of annoyance.

“You’d be surprised though, what you end up tolerating to the point of it becoming your norm...” John hesitated to say more, assuming the subject was probably terribly boring for Sherlock. As to what would have been a more ‘engaging’ topic besides what he’d had for dinner that night, John was stumped. But to his surprise, Sherlock prompted him to continue.

“Go on.”

John cleared his throat and slouched further down until his neck met the cool softness of his pillow and the back of his head rested on the armrest. He switched the mobile from his left hand to his right so he could prop his elbow on the crook where the arm met the back of the couch. He thought back on those first endless feeling weeks, living alone in that tomb of a bedsit.

“There was the noise for one—or lack thereof really.” John recounted quietly, feeling a bit fuzzy round the edges as his pill was finally starting to work. It felt a little strange too talking about this with Sherlock, but if the man was game to hear him wax on about his old sleeping troubles, so be it.

“I remember right after coming back to London; I’d gotten so accustomed to a bunch of noisy blokes around me that trying to sleep alone was pretty unnerving. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what was worse, the quiet or bed being too ruddy soft.”

“Is it still?” Sherlock cut in mildly. “Your bed now I mean. Is it still too soft?”

John’s lips pursed, a bit bewildered at the sudden interest in his mattress. He shot a glance down to his bare legs along the length of the sofa, flexing his toes.  “Uh, yeah a bit I guess.” Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t currently _on it_.

Sherlock went silent for a spell and John was left to wonder what was going on over there when the detective suddenly chimed in:

“Well you should use mine then. Assuming it’s still there, of course.” He added with a notable touch of doubtfulness.

John’s toes ceased their wiggling. “Of course it's still there but—”

With that cleared up, Sherlock seemed determined to ignore his protest. “Excellent! It’s leagues better than your bed—no offense. Seems such a waste to just let it sit there unused.”

“Sherlock, while that’s kind of you and all I—” The doctor tried again.

“Honestly John, I don’t mind. Do use it.” And before he could get in another word otherwise, Sherlock dropped the subject and launched into a new one. “Let’s see…what else can I tell you.” John stared out into the middle distance of the sitting room for a beat, flabbergasted and strangely, a bit chuffed.  He ended up shrugging off the exchange and rolling lazily for his sweating drink, switch the mobile from one hand to the other again.

Sherlock meanwhile chattered on. “I’m in between— _projects_ , right now. Obviously I can’t say what, or for that matter where, but I’m sure by now you’re quite capable of sussing out my general location.”

“If you mean Googling a phone number, then yeah.” John smirked, taking another nip of his ice water, gasping a little as the chill of it washed down his throat.

The detective tisked sharply in his ear. “I was hoping you were going about it a bit more creatively then a _search engine_.”

“You look things up all the time!” John barked a laugh, quieting down as he remembered the time of night and that he wasn’t alone in the building, even if he was more than likely the only one awake. “No. You’re just miffed I got as far as I did with nothing but a list of numbers and a search bar.” He snarked before it was caught up in a yawn. “Scuse’me.” John muttered when it passed, giving a loud sniff.

“It is rather passed your _bedtime_ isn’t it?” Sherlock teased quietly.

“ _Piss off_.” John said through another yawn. “I’m fine.” Though that was a bit of a fib. The combination of reclining, the medicine coursing throughout his system, and the detective’s lowered voice was doing nothing to help the doctor stay awake.

Sherlock gave another hum, this one more like rumble of disbelief. “I should probably ring off myself. This past project was more— _challenging_ than originally anticipated.”

“You alright?” John asked, rousing himself up from the tendrils of drowsiness. Sherlock did sound tired. He hadn’t heard it to this extreme since Durham when the detective had fallen asleep on him.

“Nothing a few hours rest won’t fix. Terrible habit I picked up from someone; sleeping when need be.”

 _"Mmm_ sounds like a very _sensible_ someone." There was a soft huff, both men falling quiet soon thereafter. Neither seemed in any particular hurry to fill it or end it. John rolled over onto his side, his view eye-level with Sherlock's chair across the sitting room. How many nights had they sat across from each other in such a silence? Completely at ease in it.

"John?"

“Yeah?” The doctor blinked, breaking from his reverie.

“Thank you for—talking with me. And for accepting the mobile. Though I’m not exactly sure why you did.”

John mulled that over for a tic, unable to find a proper reason himself to be quite honest. “That makes two of us I reckon.” He answered. “But you’re welcome.”

“Good night John.”

“Night.” As he heard the beep of the call disconnecting, John pulled the phone away, warm with use and looked at it for a second or two. The call screen had gone red, still depicting the number while the call time of a little over twelve minutes flashed below it. In a blink it went back to the home screen and then went dark.

Placing the phone gingerly atop his mystery anthology, John summoned the energy to get up and switch the lamp off. Suddenly blanketed in darkness, John cautiously made his way back towards the sofa, weary to not nail a shin on the coffee table. As he rounded the side of it, the doctor found himself pausing and looking over to stare into the kitchen and as far down the hallway beyond as he could. He couldn't see the door to Sherlock's room at all from here, even as his eyes began to adjust.

John let the lingering thought go before it had a chance to materialize, reaching the sofa and unceremoniously flopping down on it. _  
_

 

-.. . ... . .-. ...- . ... / .- -. --- - .... . .-. .-.-.-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally these knuckleheads are making some tentative progress! I've been dying to get to that final conversation for _months_. 
> 
> Fun fact: This chapter and the one before it were actually planed to be in all the same chapter. 
> 
> Fun fact 2: I originally had John going to see Anderson to learn about TEH but scrapped it in favor of having him run into Mary. (I realize I have a limited time to establish her presence so the bulk of my writing had to be redone.)
> 
> Your handy dandy [Morse Code Translator](http://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html)
> 
> And finally, apologies to all you faithful readers for my glacial updating pace. Just know that if you're still coming back to read this you have my deepest and bottomless love.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss me? We'll talk later, in the meantime enjoy!

John wandered the starkly lit Tesco, drifting from isle to isle, passing row upon row of neatly arranged boxes, cans, and bags in the hope of inspiring some ideas for tonight’s dinner. Though at the moment, the only items in the doctor’s basket were a loaf of bread and a box of his favorite custard cream biscuits. And regardless of social acceptances, toast and biscuits did _not_ constitute a proper meal.

Eventually he meandered to the produce section and was pondering the piles of fruits and veggies when his right pocket began to vibrate. John made a hasty grab for it, switching the basket to the opposite hand. Sure enough, there was an incoming call from an unknown number on _The Other Phone._

The last time he talked with Sherlock was a little over two months ago, back in early September. While John reasoned there were zero warranties the detective would contact him with any sort of regularity, he’d begun to think he’d driven Sherlock off with his demand for more candidness between them.

But to talk to him now, in _public_? John licked over his bottom lip, glancing to his left and right to see the section was thankfully, _mostly_ empty for a Monday night. There was a man with a cart far down at the opposite end, picking through a pile of roman lettuce, his young son sitting in the front fold-out seat, brightly babbling as he pointed at random things around him. A few feet away to his left, an employee was restocking bundles of asparagus from a cardboard box. Her attention deeply focused on making sure they lay nicely in their bin.

_Alright, get a grip. You’re in the ruddy supermarket, not behind enemy lines._

He supposed in a way, it could be safer talking here then back at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson in possible earshot. As it were, anyone catching a bit of John’s conversation now had no context. He could be talking to anyone. He just had to be mindful to not refer to Sherlock by name.

Shoving down the needling apprehension in his stomach, John accepted the call. “You’re a bit early,” he quipped as it connected.

“Am I?” Came a deep, mildly unsure response from the other end, making John grin a little.  As what was becoming typical with these calls, Sherlock’s surroundings were stone silent. “What time is it there?”

“Uh…quarter to seven.” John wiggled his wrist clear of his coat sleeve to check his watch. “I think the earliest you’ve ever rung me was half passed ten.”

Sherlock gave an offended scoff. “For god sakes, it’s getting impossible to keep track with all these archaic time zone changes! Why the hell do they _need_ so many?”

“I imagine it’s because of that whole earth going round the sun thing…I know you tend to forget since you’ve decided simple astronomy is tosh.” John’s amusement was shortly interrupted by a loud monotone voice crackling from the loudspeakers overhead. Practically unintelligible save for the words ‘mop’ and the number ‘four’.

“ _You’re_ at the Tesco.” Sherlock announced shrewdly.

“Yeah? And how would you know? You’ve never been.” John was unwilling to admit that of course Sherlock knew _exactly_ where he was. He took a quick reassessment of his surroundings. The man with the small child had moved on, replaced by an elderly woman inspecting bags of apples. The stock girl meanwhile had sidled up closer to him and was in the midst of refilling a ravaged pile of basil without his notice.

“Yes I _have_.” Sherlock shot back defensively in his ear and John couldn’t stop a loud snort from escaping him. It caught the attention of the employee at his side, the girl regarding him curiously. John gave her a stiff but pleasant smile before the doctor put some distance between them by heading towards the mushrooms.

“ _When_?” He continued a little quieter, the cremini mushrooms catching his interest. “And don’t say to get milk, because that was _one time_ —which, if you recall, was only after I stopped talking to you for refusing to get it in the first place.”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock sighed, as if the whole subject had become dreadfully tiresome. “And it’s not my fault I have a higher standard then what the illustrious _Tesco_ can provide.”

“ _Blimey_ …is that so?” John gasped in theatrical wonder, carefully balancing his basket on the narrow edge of a produce crate with his thigh so he could inspect a carton of mushrooms. “You’ll have to forgive me then; I didn’t realize I’d been supplying you with _substandard_ groceries for the better part of our living together.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself...” Sherlock murmured and John could plainly hear amusement sweetening his tone. “I can’t expect everyone to have the same caliber of palates.”

“Right, of course.” He was very tempted to point out the fact that to palate something, one was actually required to _eat_. Instead John redirected the conversation, finding a batch of mushrooms with decently sized caps then snagging some fresh parsley and a handful of shallots.

“So, what are you up to that you can’t tell me about?” He tried on the way to the meat and poultry section.

“Currently…waiting on a mark to exit a building.” Sherlock replied, surprising John with his frankness.

“Hold up.” John lowered his voice again, halting in front of the packages of various chicken parts wrapped in plastic and carefully organized. He made a partial show of sorting through the boneless skinless chicken breasts, dipping his head to mutter. “You’re on a stake-out and you _called_ _me_?”

“What? Seemed like as good a time as any.” Sherlock sniffed sharply, apparently conceding to nothing.

John smirked. “You’re bored off your arse aren’t you?”

“Eloquent as ever…but something along that line, yes.” John heard a brief swishing of movement. Maybe it was a bit whimsical, but he could easily picture Sherlock frowning petulantly in some darkened room or tucked away in some shadowy nook of an alley. All arms crossed and steely looks.

It made John’s heart sink as much as it made him want to smile more.

Deciding to air on the side of humor, John placed a tray of chicken in his basket and began to make his way towards the checkout lines. “Bollocks. You _love_ lying in wait, you practically live to pounce.”

“I’m not a _cat_ John.” Sherlock groused, although he didn’t sound terribly offended by the statement either.

“Eh, maybe not the lap kind…” John spied an unoccupied self-service kiosk and claimed it; beginning his order with a tap at the large green start button. “Though, you do preen more than any bloke I’ve ever met. All those hair products and oils and washes. I think you spent more money on toiletries in a month then I did on rent at the flat.”

“Says the man with the military cut and relatively straight hair. You have no idea what it takes to make this do _anything_ even remotely presentable.” Sherlock must have made a flippant wave towards his head. John had to give it to him there, the man’s curls tended to have a life of their own. Even the smallest bit of unaccounted for humidity set it whirling in a myriad of directions.

The doctor bit back a grin, momentarily distracted as he navigated the kiosk’s touchscreen for the tiny depiction of parsley among the other similar looking green leafy herbs. Jabbing the image with a defiant finger when he finally located it.

“So what’s for dinner?” Sherlock asked abruptly, giving John pause as he inserted his chip card into the reader. A small lump threatened to knot itself in his throat, the shade of a conversation long since passed. There and gone in the space of two swallows.

“Planning to join me?” John inquired after a beat, purposefully sounding preoccupied as he entered his pin number into the keypad. “Not going to spring out of a bargain bin are you?”

Sherlock gave a soft huff. “Afraid not. But, considering I have— _ohh_ —three, probably four hours to kill, and you’re obviously dining alone this evening, I might as well keep you company.”

“ _My_ that’s very generous of you. Considering _you_ called _me_.” John snarked lightly. He grabbed the receipt as it spat out of the machine, tossing it in one of two bags and loaded them both up into his right hand.

He paused by the exit, promptly feeling the brisk November air waiting for him just beyond the doors. The temperature had been steadily dropping over the past week and with a near constant wind, felt even colder.

“And it’s Chicken Marsala.”

Sherlock hummed low with intrigue. “Got the proper wine?”

“Uh no. No I was going to pop by a shop on my way back.” John grunted into the mobile perched between his shoulder and cheek as he zipped up his coat up. With a rush of bitter air he stepped out onto the pavement, injecting himself into the first open gap in the flow of pedestrians.

“Well if you’re thinking about going to Oddbins, I’d advise you not to.” Sherlock began sourly. “Ever since the son took over he’s been overpricing his merchandise by more than double what it should be. You’ll find a much better selection at Majestic Wine on Crawford.”

“Right, but Crawford’s the opposite way.” John said, narrowly stepping over a suspicious looking wet patch along the concrete. Last thing he needed was skidding on a patch of black ice with a handful of groceries and Sherlock on the phone.

“So? I helped the owner a while back with a troubling matter of an ex-employee knicking liquor and marking them down as broken during shipments.”

“ _So_ it’s glacial out here.” John protested with a grimace, curling his rapidly chilling fingertips around the mobile radiating warmth into his palm and his ear. “And while I’m sure you saved them from complete ruin, that doesn’t make it not in the _other bloody direction_.”

Sherlock tisked sharply. “Then take a _cab_.”  
  
“Sher—” John’s jaw tensed, clamping down on the near slip-up. “I’m not going to _pay_ for a _cab_ to go down two blocks.”

“ _Ahh_ , but you’ll pay out the nose for a bottle of wine you’ll use what John, twice at best?”

Stopping short on the pavement, the doctor barely dodged a group of teenagers who were walking three abreast directly behind him as he stepped aside. He stared defiantly out into the middle of the street.

He could just imagine Sherlock staring right back at him, one eyebrow creeping up in vindication. A veritable challenge to say he was wrong.

John’s head shook slowly in disbelief, laughter clouding slightly from his nostrils. “I’ve missed this you know; you being an utter dick.” A leisurely smile spread across his pinked cheeks. Sherlock made a deep, rumbling chuckle and god if that didn’t sound infuriatingly good to hear again.

Rearranging the plastic handles of his groceries in his hand, John turned on his heels and walked briskly back the way he came. He hunched his shoulders, attempting to cover up as much of the exposed skin near his collar as he was now walking against the wind. “Fine I’ll go to _Majestic Wine_ or whatever it is. But I’m not dropping your name there.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, seeming a little injured that he wouldn’t.

“Because it’s not on to use your deceased mate’s clout like some members card, that’s why.” John rebutted as unobtrusively as possible, giving the people passing by him a furtive glance. “Look, you can help me pick out a bottle, yeah?” Surprisingly, he received no further argument on the subject.

John left the bright, impressively stocked Majestic Wine with a decently priced Marsala. Sherlock had recommend a wine in the middle range, with a light sweetness and a smooth finish John could drink if he so chose to. Which he just might, considering he’d spent a whopping fifteen minutes while Sherlock critiqued nearly every _single_ variety they had on hand.

“No…that one’s far too sweet. The flavor will be all wrong.”

“Mmmm no. No. Too dry.”

“God no. You may as well be cooking with liquefied wood John. Next!”

In a stroke of pure brilliance and the desperation born of hunger, John had stopped him after the eighth or so rejection and inquired if he could send a text. He then proceeded to snap a photo of the shelves and sent it off to the number Sherlock was calling from.

“Third shelf from the top, fifth from the right.” Sherlock had declared so quickly after the message was sent, that John would have sworn he’d simply rattled off a bottle at random if there hadn’t actually been a third shelf.

On the ( _now_ _longer_ ) trip back to Baker Street, Sherlock had regaled him with how he went about catching the thieving employee—male, mid-thirties, two cats and a growing gambling debit based on the sheer amount of crumpled stubs littering the passenger floor of his dented Vauxhall Corsa— “Why is it _always_ gambling? I can think of dozen better vices to throw one’s money away on…” The detective had stopped at one point to complain.

John listened, rapt, only asking a couple clarifying questions. Usually in the past when Sherlock recounted a case he hadn’t been present at, John would actively engage. He couldn’t help it really. There was something gratifying about trying to impress Sherlock by being on the same page. And while a good eight and a half times out of ten when Sherlock asked for his input or he’d hazard a guess as to what happened next, John would get it partial if not completely wrong.

But on the rare occasions the doctor’s contributions _did_ land true, the quiet, admirable conformation Sherlock offered was well worth what John considered to be his own intellectual flailing about.

This time however he simply enjoyed the tale.

How Sherlock had approached the employee, posing as a disgruntled customer wanting a particular brand of wine that was out of stock. That the suspected employee in turn mentioned he just happened to have some stashed away and would be willing to sell it to him at a discount. And then how Sherlock secretly had the owner on the phone while the deal went down in a car park several blocks from the store that night.

“The look on his face when I read off the lot number for a bottle that no longer existed. Not to mention he had a veritable winery in the boot of his car—all matching botched deliveries. I would have captured it in oils and hung it on a wall…”

Before John knew it he was dropping his keys on the kitchen table, not quite recalling having passed the darkened front windows of Speedy’s nor apparently springing up the stairs to the flat.

They reminisced on past cases involving one or both of them having to run a sting operation while John went about preparing dinner, dredging the chicken breasts in flour then dropping them into a pan sizzling with olive oil to brown.

Like the time John had wandered in circles around the Joy of Life Fountain in Hyde Park with a map of London to catch a serial killer with a taste for helpless tourists. Sherlock had disguised himself as a homeless man (Offensively convincing scents included) feeding birds on a nearby bench, keeping him in eyesight.

The suspect, one Lloyd Burberry, had approached John soon thereafter, asking if he needed help. Donning an admittedly dreadful Russian accent, John had bombarded Burberry with questions about landmarks. The man in turn had directed him patiently, never breaking his kind demeanor even as he pulled a rather impressive switchblade from his pocket and quietly requested John to follow him. At least, that had been Lloyd’s intent until he was tackled backwards into the fountain by a dark blur of shabby, sour-smelling clothes.

“One of my better derelict ensembles.” Sherlock had remarked with a fond sadness. “Took me ages to build up that level of filth…”

“Oh I remember. I had a hell of a time trying to convince the police not to arrest you too until Lestrade showed up. And even then he wouldn’t let you in his car.”

Or the one strange case of a cat burglar that had hit the same house four times in the course of a week. Stranger still was every robbery occurred at night while all the doors and windows were locked _and_ while the victims were sleeping in the very same room.

What had intrigued Sherlock the most was the fact that the thief ignored all money and jewelry left out and instead stole (alarmingly) expensive silk scarves and randomly selected cashmere socks. And sometimes not even the entire pair.

“You always had a soft spot for the bizarre ones…” John had mused, slicing up the creminis as evenly as possible while he was hunched to one side, keeping the phone squashed against his shoulder. It would have been far easier to just put the call on speaker phone, but doing so seemed too risky with Mrs. H only a floor away.

“Far more interesting.” Sherlock agreed thoughtfully. “You’ve seen enough of them John; the average criminal is rarely bright let alone creative. Robberies themselves are formulaic. Break into something, steal something, get out, don’t get caught. Usually anything worth my time revolves around the act itself rather than what’s been stolen.  Top secret documents, a priceless painting, some big blue gem…valuable to most but not me. What I value is the _how_ and the _why_ , not necessarily the what.”

John listened as he dumped the sliced mushrooms into the pan, mixing them in with the shallots already searing away.

“Though I will admit the _what_ in that case had me intrigued. Who the hell steals socks at random?”

“A thief with a foot fetish I’d imagine.” John supplied.

“ _Precisely_. A good old fashioned philia always makes things more exciting. Pair it with a locked room and with any luck a body and you’ve have my attention.”

Upon anticipating a fifth break in, Sherlock and he had stowed away in a frightfully large walk-in closet. John remembered Sherlock doing his best to comfortably lean against a wall of dark oak shoe cubbies, while he tried very hard not to make eye contact with a fox stole, the poor creature’s face still fully intact. The way its faux amber eyes gleamed in the moonlight from the skylight overhead made the doctor shiver.

A little after midnight Sherlock had abruptly raised a gloved finger to his lips, silencing John mid-whisper. John had strained his ears until he heard a faint scratching. Like something grating against metal. It grew louder and louder until it sounded like it was right with in the room beyond them. There was a creak, a metallic groan and then a soft clang followed by silence.

Both men leaned towards the seam they’d left between the two heavy sliding doors of the closet. Sherlock had peered out, his eyes narrowed for the longest moment before he glanced at John who shrugged at the resounding silence, when suddenly there was the quiet slide of a dresser drawer being opened.

Twisting round, Sherlock quickly scanned the cubbies and grabbed a rather impressive stiletto, brandishing its four inch metal heel. John nodded, readying his gun before they burst from their hiding spot…

“I’ve never seen such a fat raccoon move so fast.” John snorted, waiting for the mushrooms and shallots to cook down a little more along with some fresh minced garlic. “Then again, you charging at it like a lunatic with a woman’s shoe probably had something to do with it.”

“At the very least it disproved your frankly absurd theory that it was a circus _contortionist_ getting in through the old dumbwaiter.” Sherlock chided right back, which made John giggle even harder while he poured a healthy portion of the Marsala along with some chicken stock into the pan. The liquid bubbled and swirled as he stirred, deglazing all the good brown bits from the bottom.

As it turned out the “burglar” had taken up residence deep within the house’s cavernous loft, using the air ducts to travel to and fro. Upon further inspection, they found the stolen scarves and socks in a heap beneath four mewling kits covered in soft grey fuzz with only a hint of their trademark masks on their tiny faces.

Though John didn’t have any particular fondness for raccoons, he had to admit the little things were undeniably cute. Even Sherlock, after the adrenaline and disappointment had worn off, seemed oddly taken with the sight of them. He’d crouched down, small torch in hand while John rung animal control and watched as the kits squirmed and rolled over one another, their eyes still shut tight.

“I still say we should have kept one.” Sherlock lamented. “I could have taught it how to retrieve things for me and open rudimentary locks. Did you know on the mammalian IQ scale, raccoons rank higher than cats and just below monkeys?”

“I don’t care if you could of taught it to knit you a new scarf Sherlock. Goldfish, frogs, the occasional borrowed rat, but I draw the line at _raccoons_. You know my Nan had two of them downstairs in her laundry room one summer. Made the walls look like sodding Swiss cheese!”

John thought he heard Sherlock grumble that they’d just have kept it down in C, which he rightfully made no comment to, adding the chicken back into the pan and dousing it with the surrounding sauce.

Somehow they got onto the subject of friends and colleagues as John ate his dinner at the table in the sitting room, curtains shut tight and fire blazing in the hearth. But not before snapping a dim photo of his plate at Sherlock’s request and texting it over. Despite a small gripe about John having used frozen green beans instead of fresh steamed ones like he usually did ( _why would Sherlock even remember that?_ ) the meal was deemed a success.

John started with Lestrade—the divorce, him being put on probation for a solid two months with NSY while his higher-ups investigated his involvement with Sherlock. Then onto Anderson’s resignation and subsequent plunge into bearded obsession.

“Been perusing the forum have you?”

“So you do know about it.” John smirked into his wineglass, draining the last of his Marsala before pouring himself half a fresh glass. “I sort of assumed you must have but just didn’t care.”

“Quite the opposite. I happen to check it from time to time. Makes for a surprisingly useful reference. Plus Mycroft’s terribly sour about it.” Sherlock added proudly.  

John laughed as he jabbed his last bite of chicken, nabbing a few stray mushrooms along the way. His thoughts drifted back to June, to their reunion. Sherlock leaner but toned. The tanned skin and sun-kissed hair. It was a gamble to ask but John couldn’t help but want to know.

“Did you seriously stop a political assassination with _surfboard_ _wax_?”

“ _Assassinations_ ,” Sherlock corrected, but not unkindly. “And not exactly. It was skin cells and particles of beach sand _in_ the wax. I’d tell you more but…”

“No I understand. And I’d like to hear about it...sometime.” John trailed off awkwardly, faced with another subject he hadn’t inquired about as of yet. The _when_ of Sherlock’s return, or _if_ for that matter. And while John had an inkling the answer Sherlock would give him, if any, would be vague and frustratingly non-committal, now just didn’t feel like the right time to bridge it.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one struck quiet by the suggestion; there was a pronounced stretch of silence on the other end of the line until Sherlock quickly filled it with: “Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yeah?”

“How is she? Is she still bothering with _Chatterjee_?” The detective asked with blatant distaste.

“ _Oh no_ he’s out.” John reported confidently. “Now it’s a bookseller around the corner on Porter, just opened up. She brings him brandy snaps.”

Sherlock gave a troubled hum. “Serious then. You’ve met him?”

“Like any proper tenant I felt him out, yeah.” John shrugged and took a swig of his wine.

 “ _And_?”

“Uh…late sixties, onset rheumatoid arthritis, flannel-shirt enthusiast, pipe smoker—”

“Ex-wife?” Sherlock interjected.

“Widower.” John took another nip and set his glass aside, feeling a pleasant level of tipsiness. He’d have to lay off his sleeping meds tonight, but falling asleep on his own shouldn’t be an issue.

“Seems like a genuinely harmless bloke to me. Although I _did_ mention to him that should anything unfavorable happen to Mrs. H, I knew a place with an active minefield.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Good man.”

John internally beamed a little as he absently nudged a mushroom sliver around his plate. “She’s doing well otherwise. Hip’s still acting up but she’s never let that stop her. Unless it’s convenient for it to.”

“She…she misses you. Very much.” John added tentatively. “In fact a lot of people do.”

“Do they?” Sherlock asked quietly, sounding rather contemplative about it. “I imagined it’s been quite nice not having me skulking about. You can all be moronic in peace.”

John snorted at that. “Oh it’s utter chaos in the streets without you. London’s rife with serial killers and thieving raccoons. Why just yesterday a gang of them tried to mug me.”

“A gang of serial killers or raccoons?”

“ _Worse_ , serial killer raccoons.” John answered as gravely as he could manage.

“I wonder how difficult it would be to train a raccoon to _kill_ …” Sherlock pondered, mostly to himself.

“ _Christ_ do not start that again. I’ll hang up.”

“No you won’t.”

“ _Yeah_. I will.”

“ _Mmmm_ no _p_ e.” Sherlock popped in his ear, following idly with. “You never could resist a stakeout.”

John laughed, albeit a touch begrudgingly. He couldn’t argue with that. And to be honest he was enjoying himself immensely.

It felt like old times.

The two of them whiling away the minutes, often _hours_. Punctuating long quiet spells with conversations—sometimes quite heated ones—about the most random things apropos to nothing in particular. Zombie fungi, the absurdity of Bond villains, the ideal paring of a specific tea and biscuit, who could hold their breath the longest (Sherlock by a solid minute and a half), why on earth John found black coffee so appealing and why Sherlock wouldn’t touch his unless it was cut with a pound of sugar.

Though, Sherlock was partially incorrect with his assessment. It wasn’t the concept of the stakeout that attracted John, not entirely at least. It was spending time with his friend.

One would rightfully suggest such a thing could be done at home when there was nothing on, but it was never that simple. Either John was working at surgery or out trying to maintain some sense of a social life. And Sherlock was typically self-sequestered for hours at Bart’s or focused on his latest experiment in their kitchen.

Or sulking on the couch.

 _Or_ mentally miles away with his violin in hand.

 **Or** off doing certain things John prayed he wasn’t doing.

Rarely, did their personal bubbles collide and fuse outside a case. So, in the event they were holed up together, John came to relish having these often silly, sometimes surprisingly introspective conversations.

But did Sherlock know all that? John presumed not since he’d never outwardly mentioned it to him. They rarely dug that deep from themselves in these circumstances. They rarely dug that deep at all _period_. And that had nothing to do with some Englishmen pride; he and Sherlock just weren’t the sort for it.

_And look where that got us. Would it really be so terrible to tell him how you felt?_

_Even if he doesn’t reciprocate at the very least he’ll know. Transparency right?_

“John?” Sherlock’s voice, inquiring if not a bit cautious sounding broke his train of thought. John shifted in his seat, resting his fork down with a soft clatter.

“Uh yeah—yeah sorry. I was just thinking…” He managed quickly, taking a long swig of wine. Well if things went completely to pot he could always blame it on the Marsala. He took a deep breath, formulating his words on the go.

“You know…doing the whole stakeout thing was exciting for me yeah, but…really it meant we got to spend time with each other.”

“But John, we live together. We saw each other all the time.” Sherlock refuted after a brief pause and John tried very hard not to get sidetracked by his use of current tense.

“Yeah, we _saw_ each other.” The doctor pressed on, gathering his nerves before they trickled away like sand. There was a swell of frustration inside him, helpful as it was caustic.

“Sherlock, if we weren’t dashing around London or outwitting criminal masterminds, we barely interacted. Not like _this_ , what we’re doing right now. Listen, I’m not saying what you and I discuss equates to anything _philosophical_. I think we once had an entire sodding debate on brands of toothpaste.”

“I just—really enjoyed it is all.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said softly after what felt like another painstakingly long pause. John greatly wished he could see his face, what expression he was or wasn’t making. That ‘Oh’ could have meant an uncountable array of things coming from Sherlock and all John had to go on was the ( _confused, surprised, — **uncomfortable**?_ ) quality of it—

“Me too. I—I enjoyed it too.” Sherlock blurted quietly and a little stilted. Enough that John had to replay what he said twice before he believed he heard it correctly. When he did he nodded to himself, dashing a lick over his abruptly dry lips.

He cleared his throat, releasing the tension he was holding in his shoulders unwittingly. John huffed an embarrassed laugh. “Christ, you’d think I just confessed to reading your diary.” He drained the remains of his wine and set the glass aside.

“I never kept one.” Sherlock disclosed, sounding more at ease himself. “Not in the archetypal form anyway. More like, events recorded and stored in my mind. As I grew older I was able to keep the details crisper.”

“Or delete them entirely.” John couldn’t help but goad good-naturedly as he reclined back in his chair.

“That’s referential data. Names, places, techniques, concepts and observations. There’s only so much space up there after all. I have to be highly selective of what stays and what goes. Events though tend to be more...persistent as it were.”

John frowned thoughtfully. “You mean unforgettable?”

“Sometimes.” Sherlock replied vaguely, like it was a subject he preferred to dodge.

“I think that happens to everyone.”

“ _Not me_.” The detective grumbled just shy of sharp and John decided not to pry. He had memories himself he’d give anything to delete, some more recent than others. It must have been exceeding frustrating however for a man like Sherlock, so adapt at organizing his mind to have things he couldn’t well, _sort out_.

“I used to write. When I was younger.” John began, attempting to get the conversation rolling again. “Not a diary. I think the closest thing I have to that now is my _blog_.” He scoffed a little. “But I used to um—god I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but, I used to write these little stories. Horror, fantasy, sci-fi, anything that wasn’t reality. Real life was just too…” _Unpleasant._

“Monumentally _typical_?” Sherlock supplemented making him snort lightly.

“At times, yeah.”

“ _Hmm_ …I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. You did tend to write up our more unusual cases rather quickly. And with a greater dose of your customary _flourish_. Do you still have them?”

John’s mind stalled, taken aback by the request. “Erm maybe?—I mean, _if_ they do still exist I reckon my mum would have them, somewhere. Honestly though, Sherlock, they’re rubbish. A child’s flight of fancy—” He attempted to stress.

“John nothing you write is _rubbish_.” Sherlock interrupted determinedly, catching him for the second time off guard. “Over-theatrical at times, definitely, but never rubbish.”

John grinned lopsidedly, feeling a light flush along his cheeks that he blamed on the wine. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever complemented my writing.” Ignoring the fact it was technically a backhanded compliment.

“Yes, well, mind you don’t let it get to your…” Sherlock trailed off, followed a loud rush of something brushing against the receiver. “John I have to go. He’s—my mark is leaving.”

“Oh right. Yeah. Um…” John sat up. Even safely tucked away at Baker Street, he felt a sharp flux of adrenaline. The need to act, to follow, felt as natural as muscle memory. At a loss of what to say, he simply uttered. “I’d wish you luck but I know better.”

He could hear the excitement in Sherlock’s voice, slightly breathy as he must have been on the move. “I’ll speak to you again when I can.”

“I’ll be here.” John replied. As the call ended, he pulled the mobile from his ear, rubbing his thumb over the blackened screen. He glanced up, finding Sherlock’s chair in his direct line of sight and a brief swell of absence wash over him.

John shook it off and gathered his dishes, ushering them to the sink so he could ready himself for bed.  


\- .... . / .... . .- .-. - /  


 

John’s mind processed one thing immediately when he sluggishly roused from sleep: the skin of his cheek felt puffy, almost like it had grown fatter. At least, the one not squashed against his pillow did. There was also a notably dull ache in the ear of the same exposed side, growing sharper when he involuntarily flexed it. Surfacing further, he noted a distinct lack of sound in the bedroom. Specifically the soft droning of air coming out of the baseboard vent several feet away from where he lay.

Which, wouldn’t have been much of a big to-do if it wasn’t the middle of _November_.

The doctor groaned and burrowed himself deeper under the covers. His chilled face warming so quickly it was slightly painful.

 _Of course_. Of course the bloody heating would go on the fritz the _one_ day he had a later start at surgery this week. There went his plan of having a lie-in.

John snaked a hand from under the covers, careful not to let too much cold air in as he searched blindly for his phone. His fingers slapped around the bedside table, trailing up the side, along the edge, and finally over the surface of it, locating the edge of the mobile just as his fingertips began to tingle. The device was frigid when he brought it under and only when John got a proper look at it in the small amount of light diffusing through the bedlinens did he realize he’d grabbed _The Other Phone._

John gave a huff and checked the time, momentarily blinded as the mobile’s screen flared to life. His disappointment deepened to find it was only a little after eight o’clock. Quickly shutting off the display, he tucked the phone to his chest, the chilled plastic warming beneath his palm as he devised.

_Right. Battle plans: hit the loo, make coffee, start fire (if the gas was still working), recon with Mrs. Hudson, salvage morning._

Steeling himself, John went topside, inhaling sharply through his nose as the brisk air hit his face. He opened his eyes, giving them a minute to adjust to the soft light filtering through the window to his right and spilling across the bedding. He stared blearily up at the framed piece of aged paper mounted to the wall above his head; the long vertical lines of hand-painted Japanese symbols became sharper with each blink.

No amount of adjusting though prepared him for the bracing chill that swept over his body as he threw back the covers. John tended to generate a lot of heat in his sleep, much to the delight of many of his bed partners. His usual sleepwear of choice was a thin t-shirt and a pair of boxers. All well and good if the bed’s outside temperature matched its inside. Now it felt like every hair on John’s body was standing painfully on end.

He scrambled to find the pair of socks he’d discarded the night prior. But even with them, the cold seeped in through the wool when his feet met the hardwood floor. With a grumbled curse, John made a grab for his dressing gown draped over the sleigh footboard and hastily threw it on.

Upon exiting the bathroom, the doctor was pleasantly surprised at the waft of brewing coffee as he stepped into the hall.

“Oh good John, you’re awake!” Mrs. Hudson hailed from where she stood by the center table in the kitchen, a mug in her hand. She was bundled up tightly in a thick plum coat over her housedress and offered John a thankful smile passed the faux fur trim of the hood. It nearly swallowed her head where it rested on her shoulders. “Come warm yourself up dear. I’ve made coffee.”

“ _You_ are a blessing Mrs. H.” John huddled quickly into the kitchen, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek, the fur trim of her hood tickling underneath his chin. Mrs. Hudson clucked at the sight of him, rubbing his palms steadily over his biceps and put her cup down. She hastened over to the coffeemaker, grabbing an awaiting mug on the worktop.

“So any idea what’s going on will all this?” He asked, watching intently as she poured.

“It’s that damn furnace again!” Martha placed the carafe back on its hotplate a little too sharply. “Excuse me dear.” She sighed a beat later; suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. She came round, knowingly ignoring the sugar and jug of milk sitting on the kitchen table and handed the coffee straight to him.

Mrs. Hudson retrieved her own mug, wrapping her fingers—bare save for a pair of royal blue fingerless gloves around the worn porcelain. “I’m just at my wits end with the blasted thing.”

“All I know is it shut off sometime during the night and then never came back on. I rung the company who fixed it last time it went and they said they’ll send someone but, you know how it is this time of year.” She finished somberly.

John gave a nod, pondering a moment as he took his first sip, relishing the blazing trail the liquid made from his throat all the way to his core. “I could take a look at it.” He offered. “I’m no furnace whisperer but I can at least check if it’s the pilot light.”

“Only if it isn’t a hassle. Heavens knows I ask so much from you already.” Mrs. Hudson cooed, patting a warm hand at John’s chilly cheek. “I’ve spoken to Marie by the way and she’s offered her place till this whole thing gets sorted out. That extends to you too of course.”

John’s brows sprang as he took another sip. “ _Mmm_ —No offense, but one can only take so much of you and Mrs. Turner under one roof.” He smirked along the rim of his mug, barely trying to lean out of the way as Martha gave a reproachful ‘ _Oh_!’ and swatted him gently on the hip.

“I just worry about you up here all on your own John. Working heat or not.”

“I am a grown man Mrs. H. I can take care of myself.” John huffed into his drink, the steam felt marvelous as it blew up into his face. “Believe it or not, other people even look to me to take care of them.”

“Oh you know what I _mean_ …” She tutted delicately in response and the doctor caught the hasty glance Martha stole over his shoulder towards the hallway passed the kitchen. When her gaze returned, it was with a sympathetic smile. One John wincingly returned before promptly shifting his attention down to the mug in his hand with a little hum.

“Yeah well—”

“You know, a part of me will always love my late husband.” Mrs. Hudson gently interrupted and John did his best to steel his discomfort with a long swig of his coffee. “The drug cartel and the homicides and the cheating aside, Frank had some very loveable qualities. Mostly physical…” She gave a fond, almost reminiscing smile. “And there’s _nothing_ wrong with that…”

“Erm—No, I—suppose not. Say, do you think I might be able to nab a shower at the Turners?” John tried, desperate for a subject change. His ploy seemed to pay off as he looked back up just in time to see her expression brighten.

“Oh they’ll be delighted!” Mrs. Hudson’s nose wrinkled cheerfully, shoulders rising so that her downy coat appeared to be trying to eat her. “I’ll let Marie know you’ll be coming round.” She patted him on the arm as she whisked passed to take her nearly empty cup to the sink, missing the grateful look John paid towards the ceiling.

They each went their separate ways shortly thereafter; John with a then critical need for some warmer clothing and Mrs. Hudson back to her flat, twittering elatedly about having plenty of time to bake some blueberry scones to bring with them to the Turner’s.

Trading his robe for jeans and a thick jumper, John came back downstairs, topping off his coffee on his way back to the bedroom. He pulled the duvet from the bed along with the slate-grey sheet underneath, slinging both over the footboard.

Bloody awkward as it had been, John couldn’t help but replay his conversation with Mrs. Hudson as he went about stretching and smoothing the fitted sheet back onto the mattress.  
  
Her concern wasn’t exactly unjustified. For all intents and purposes, he was sleeping in his flatmate’s bed. Correction—his _dead_ flatmate’s bed. The one she was under the steadfast opinion that he’d been in a romantic relationship with despite every single one of John’s protests ( _and_ _girlfriends_ ) implied otherwise.

Admittedly, a pitying smile here and there was a deal better than the previous reaction she had. The first time Mrs. H caught him early one morning shuffling out of Sherlock’s bedroom, sleep-rumpled hair and clad in pajamas she nearly burst into hysterics in the middle of the kitchen.

 _‘Oh John…he—he would have wanted you to!’_ She’d blubbered as he tried futilely to calm her while simultaneously ushering her back downstairs. If only the poor woman knew how right about that she actually was.

He hadn’t planned to take Sherlock up on his offer to use his bed. In fact, John really hadn’t given it a second thought until randomly one evening mid-October as he was going through his nightly routine before bed—his own bed incidentally.

John had just plunked his toothbrush in the small plastic cup on the bathroom sink and was baring his teeth at the mirror when the en suite door to Sherlock’s bedroom caught his attention. Nothing but darkness from beyond the clouded panes of yellowed glass.

Before Durham, John hadn’t been able to bare even looking at it let alone step inside. The only reason the room had seen any scrap of tidying was Mrs. Hudson slipping in at one point and making the bed. And whether or not she went in there afterwards to clean while he was out of the flat, John didn’t know. Didn’t care to know at the time. Wouldn’t dare let himself care.

But that evening, the doctor had crossed the short distance and reached for the knob, hinges whining as he eased the door open slowly, just enough to pop his head round it. The light from the bathroom spilled in, cutting the blackness like a knife of murky white.

Besides being dreadfully still in there, perhaps the most jarring thing to John was the smell that hit him after a moment or two. Faded as it was and despite the air being stuffy for having sat sealed for so long, the room still _smelled_ of Sherlock. Mostly the permeated traces of cigarette smoke, but there was also a hint of his expensive cologne and a combination of other scents too subtle for the doctor to decipher.

He’d looked around a bit, taking in Sherlock’s large wardrobe, the chair beside it, the shelves he could just barely make out from where he stood, noting the shapes of objects but not their exact identification. Finally his gaze fell to the sizeable—and as Sherlock himself had put it ‘ _leagues better’_ —bed.

John was irrefutably curious how solid that claim was considering the man rarely slept in it. Any prolonged use the bed got was typically when the detective hit a post-case crash. That was if Sherlock actually made it to his room—with or without John’s aid—rather than crumpling into a catatonic heap on the sofa or his chair by the fireplace.

He’d got a little daring then, easing inside the room and placing both hands down over the duvet and giving the mattress beneath it a couple of testing shoves. It certainly had _felt_ supportive as the surface sprung back straightway.

John may or may not have then taken a seat on the very edge of the mattress, followed shortly with a fall backwards across the span of it. He certainly didn’t let out a blissful groan immediately after doing so. And he most definitely did not doze off for a good twenty-five minutes only to wake up mildly confused as to where he was for several seconds.

No, John hadn’t planned to take Sherlock up on his offer, at least beyond a few nights. Nor had he planned on continuing to sleep there a whopping four weeks later and to the heartbreaking discovery of his landlady.

Coupled with the fact he _wasn’t_ presently seeing someone or that the last time John recalled going on a legitimate date was more than a year and a half ago…

 _Well is it any wonder then she thinks I’m a morose shut-in?_ John thought with grim amusement, taking the flat sheet by one set of ends and flicking it out. He lifted a bottom corner of the mattress to tuck part of the sheet below it before pulling the remaining edge up then tucking that under as well, forming a forty-five degree angled fold with the linen.

Frankly, after losing Sherlock, he’d been so overcome with grief and anger that the idea of bringing someone else into his life had been the farthest one from his mind. Romantically or otherwise. He’d been a husk of a person, barely managing to go through the motions. It wouldn’t have been fair to subject a person to that for the sake of trying to bring a sense of normalcy back to his life. To fill a void that quite honestly only one person could really fill…

Still, even though circumstances _were_ different now, trolling the waters at the local singles bars didn’t hold the same appeal to John that it used to. Which was beyond baffling. He should _want_ to start dating again. Hell, just going out on the pull would be acceptable. It wasn’t like John didn’t feel a growing sense of loneliness as of late. That he didn’t desire intimacy, companionship; something stable and lasting.

_Not that I’ve had much success with anything considered ‘long-term’. Unless I count Sherlock. My longest relationship to date and it’s with a bloke who actively **repels** relationships!_

Preforming the same crease and tuck on the opposite corner, John made for the pillows, fluffing them with a soft contemplative smirk. It lingered as he dumped the grey and blue stripped duvet back on the bed and tugged it into place, smoothing the ripples out meditatively beneath his palms.

He supposed at the very least, he could go on a date without the fear of being interrupted. An unhindered opportunity to have a nice romantic evening out. A little dinner, some wine and maybe, if things went swimmingly, something more afterwards. No calls or texts or worse— _physical manifestations_ needing his immediate attention. No snide remarks or sulky looks as he was heading out the door. No terribly accurate deductions aimed like spears at poor unsuspecting dates.

If John Watson was going to have baked ziti dumped on his head, it would be on his own terms now. 

He stood up, putting the perplexing train of thoughts aside for the time being to inspect his handiwork.

 _“Honestly John…hospital corners?”_ Came a derisive croon in the back of his mind.

“Git.” John murmured, smirking softly as he gave one edge of the duvet a soft tug and left.

 

.... .- ... / .- / -- .. -. -.. /  


Later, while John was alone at his desk, attempting to get a head start on that day’s paperwork while he waited on his final appointment, there came a light knocking at the door. He looked up to see Mary standing in the threshold, trouble creasing her brow as she clutched a stack of filing folders to her chest.

“Sorry to interrupt but I’ve got Mrs. Greenwood on hold.” She winced, nibbling on her blush-tinted bottom lip. “She’s stuck in traffic, something about an overturned lorry. She said she thinks she can make it here but it might be a half hour past her appointment time. I mentioned I _might_ be able to get her in with someone else but otherwise she’ll have to reschedule.”

“I don’t mind hanging around.” John said honestly. “Tell her not to rush.”

Mary balked her head, pleasantly surprised. “Huh. I usually have to pull teeth to get a response like that.” She mused. “Come to think of it, you’ve been _awfully_ chipper today.” Her eyes narrowed in playful suspicion.

“Have I?” John sat back in his chair, crossing his arms in an attempt of aloofness. Mary laughed softly, a toothy grin spreading across her face. He shrugged. “Just had good evening last night. Seems to be carrying over.”

Regardless of the rough morning, his long talk with Sherlock had put him in a pleasant mood. While things between them were nowhere near sorted out, at the very least John felt like the detective was making a genuine effort.

Mary hummed thoughtfully, assessing him for a moment. She looked about to head off, slipping out of sight before she quickly leaned back in. “You know…if you don’t mind waiting a bit longer, a few of us are going out for drinks at Paul’s after hours. Interested?” Her ears perked.

John opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. He’d gone out for drinks before with some of the other staff members, nice enough folk. A good (sometimes _needed_ ) breath of mundane when the rest of his life revolved around the wonderful chaos that was, well, Sherlock Holmes.

Still, it would be the first time he’d go with Mary in tow. _It’s not a date. It’s just a few drinks with workmates. I **did** want to get out more._

Before John thought about it further he was nodding. “Yeah…yeah alright.” A small toe-dip into the socializing pool. Get back in the swing of things. He liked drinks and people, having the chance to combine both being even better.

“And who knows…” Mary pondered. John watched her gaze making an unabashed journey over him from toe to head. “Maybe you’ll have _two_ good nights.”

Mary shot him a mischievous little shrug, her arms tightening around her files as she walked off.

 

\--- ..-. / .. - ... / --- .-- -.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm terrible for ending it like that, but keep this in mind...this is a whole different time line we're working with here, canon impressions have changed, motivations are different now, things will not end the same as in the show because they simply can't. It's a brave new world friends!  
> Plus we do have John sleeping in Sherlock's bed for month :D
> 
> My plan going ahead with this story _was_ to write the whole rest of the thing out and then publish on a regular schedule. But apparently without the WIP motivation of needing to get the next chapter up mixed with my own personal hangups, no writing gets done. But, gentle, kind, awesome readers, if you're still there, hopefully this chapter will slake your thirst for now. And as always, I promise you this will continue. 
> 
> And here's this chapter's full code: - .... . / .... . .- .-. - / .... .- ... / .- / -- .. -. -.. / --- ..-. / .. - ... / --- .-- -.  
> You can translate it with this handy dandy [Morse Code translator](https://morsecode.scphillips.com/translator.html)


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